Work and Life in South Sudan

This time I mean it

2010-04-10T11:16:00.000-07:00

I did handle the transitions much better: so much so that I didn’t have anything to whinge about for months. What I didn’t handle well was the checkbooks. This is ht eproblem with delegation. One of my staff stole 2 checks from the finance officer, forged signatures and made off with $14,000. The cowardly little shit left his wife and child behind who were imprisoned for a day or two, but then released and now have to check into the police station twice a day. She faces constant harassment over the fact that her husband is a crook and stole money intended for work here. Despite the fact that it’s a big town, people still know each other’s business. We don’t expect her to stick around for long. The police are inept and corrupt and are busy with lots of local cases to worry about. Karma will get him I hope.

Other than this, my time since November was not incredibly eventful. The project rolled on with the usual sets of wonders and challenges. It became apparent much too late that I wasn’t spending enough – how odd work is. The project looks set to close with over $300k left in the budget. I proposed buying an amphibious 2-seater plane. The boss said no. I got a deputy: an international employee and looked upon this as an exciting challenge – real management, rather than just bossing underlings around.

I got a nice break over Christmas to London and to Barcelona where I saw a friend from university I’d last seen 12 years ago who’s been busy making babies. I met her newest addition, number 3. Compared to her, my time on the planet over the last 12 years seems very unproductive.

I fell in love with London again,and at winter-time no less. I’m sure the weather and vacation state of mind had a lot to do with it. I loved walking the streets in the crisp sunny days and clear nights. I loved the anonymity and bustle. I realized this on a train on the way into Waterloo: looking out the window on the right as we approached Vauxhall after the Sainsbury’s, the afternoon sun shone on the 1970’s functional tower block of dark brown concrete and I realized that this is where I belong. I also realized that there was little chance of being able to come back immediately unless I was willing to endure a few miserable months of unemployment in the spring. I think I did the right thing by shelving these thoughts. I’m beginning to understand the momentum of life and that smooth transitions take a couple of years of intention and small changes to achieve. It’s funny that for so long I desired an international career and now I’m trapped on the outside. For me to come back and get the kind of job I want to be happy is going to take a few more years out here.

In March I got to see Cairo and family in Amman. Cairo was fun, but wow, travel takes a lot of effort. My idea of a good vacation destination is somewhere where I can sit in one place and drink green tea. Everyone in Jordan looked vey healthy, especially my grandmother. I think there’s something in the water: no really, I smelled chlorine for the first time and I think the municipal water supply is finally piped and treated. This is why I like public services.

Coming back to Sudan in mid-March, I knew, was to be my final trip back to work and in a way looked forward to finishing things up over the next 12 weeks or so. This would be a longer stint than usual so I equipped accordingly: fruit, Tupperware, protein power, a kilo of green tea, three of honey. Egypt air lost my luggage. Bastards.

One of the reasons I’ve become a lot more content with work is because I finally got a boss I respect: an ex-Lieutenant Colonel from the Yugoslav army, Zoran. He gets points for the name alone. Despite the fact that he keeps rubbing my head, we get on very well. Thankfully I only see him in person an average once every 2 months. He’s practical, listens, reasons and is decisive and clear.

So me, my Liberian deputy and my team did pushed on with our project work, we educated some communities, we made them aware elections are coming. Thus far we estimate reaching over 500k people (that’s 5 times our program target, by the way – go us). I’m very aware, though that our pithy messages of “Go Vote” or similar are not going to do that much good. Sudan, particularly the South, is about to have one of the most complicated elections on the planet. Each voter will have to vote on 12 separate ballots. The winner for the president of the republic (from which almost every opposition party has recently withdrawn) requires a majority. The president of the south and state governors require pluralities. The legislative assemblies at each level will work by proportional representation, but with 3 lists: a constituency list, a party list and a women’s list. Illiteracy is estimated at over 65% in the population and over 90% amongst women. With many never having held a pen, the mechanics of simply checking the box will be the biggest obstacle, let alone evaluating the choices for a good leader. The National Electoral Commission, who we exist to support (read “whose failures we are making up for as they sit in their air-conditioned offices in state capitals”), released thousands of mock ballots – the only instance in my opinion where they’ve demonstrated any foresight or initiative. Then Silva Kiir announced that subversive Arabs from the North might come to confuse people with false papers. Most the solders are illiterate too, so can’t read the “SAMPLE” stamp on each of the mock ballots and have been hauling anyone seen with them to jail. Thankfully none of my staff are among.

It is exciting, I must admit. The enthusiasm in the air is tangible. People want to know what do to who to choose and when the changes will start happening. They understand this is the staging event for the referendum. There are flyers and posters and campaigns and marches and rallies just about everywhere. I tried to attend one, but keeping a low profile is impossible when you’re one of the only khuwaja’s in the village and I got invited up on stage. It’s a fun time to be here but I’m leaving before the shit hits the fan.

A lot of foreigners fear people’s expectations for what the elections will bring are high and we’re not sure what’s going to happen when people get disappointed. I think counting is going to take weeks, not the 3 days it’s expected to. No one has yet admitted (and with good reason) that the polling centres will not have sufficient capacity to accommodate all registered voters within the 3 days of polling. With 12 ballots observers predict that it will take a person at least 45 minutes to complete the process. A huge number of people registered with mobile teams, but there will only be static polling centres and not in a 1:1 ratio. The final registered voter’s lists and other vital bits of equipment (such as ballots and boxes), had still not reached polling centres 2 days before the elections, All is done with paper lists, so a person will have to guess where his/her name is. Merely finding a person’s name, in communities that typically have only 5-10 is alone going to be one hell of challenge for the poorly educated polling centre officials. People will likely have to wait hours to get into a polling centre and if their name is not there, they’ll have to go to another centre to try to find their name again. The average Southern Sudanese is well-accustomed to disappointment, though.

It’s not for these reasons I’m leaving. I’m leaving because I finally got another job. In the project brief of the new gig for the donor, my new employer described me as a development professional with 10 years experience. If I’ve ever felt like I’m living in an episode of “faking it” this is it. If only they knew two of those years were spent as a…neuroscientist!

I didn’t want a big event over my leaving, partly because I hate events and partly over the shame that this is the second time I’ve done it. A few did actually respond to the news with “again?” Having left once before I’m not that interested in a complete retrospective, so I wanted to move discreetly, efficiently and un-emotionally. I asked my logistician to prepare purchase request for a flight to Nairobi. Victor, the driver of whom I’m fondest and who can’t read carried the request for a quote to the local ticketing office. He returned with a suspicious look “When are you coming back from Nairobi?”

The goodbyes quickly started coming and, like last time, were very touching. I think everyone held a minor reserve in their goodbye representing their scepticism about the fact that I was really going and not coming back. I tried to get around to each of the offices so it was an odd series of staggered events. Zoran quickly organized meeting in Juba but one of his opening statements bothered me: ”despite having a reputation of being harsh or mean….we know he has a heart of gold”.

Heart of gold?

It might be because I wear a perpetual frown, or because I’m overcompensating for the fact that I think I’m a pushover, but it seems I have developed a reputation for being a bit of a git. I think I prefer that to having a reputation as a wet. This is why I hade send-offs as the recipient I’m supposed to grin and be thankful.

I got on best and will miss those that I didn’t’ directly manage – the cooks, the cleaners, the guards, the drivers. Those relations were easier to maintain as friendships and those goodbyes were the hardest, in part because we simply didn’t have the language or the words. I was trying to make a dent the remaining amount left in our budget so over the last couple of weeks have been things like tanks and submersible pumps to replace the hand pumps at the boreholes in our compounds, shirts and uniforms for the guards and cooks – there’s only two months left in the program, but what the hell. This was mistakenly perceived as my devoting my final efforts on the program to make their lives richer. Although not quite right, I accepted the glory. I’m allowed that much, aren’t I?

I’m glad to be leaving now and glad to have gotten to this point. What started out as a 6 month temp contract two years ago has developed into some great experiences: anecdotal, developmental, personal and professional. So that’s it. Like the goodbyes from my staff, I guess I, too, think I might be back. I cut my teeth on South Sudan and with a referendum next year and a lot of work to do after I might be lured back. There’s little point in planning, though: I expect that things won’t go to plan. If I’ve learned anything over the last two years, it’s that.

Transitions

2009-11-28T09:45:00.000-08:00

As always, it’s on the journey back when I start panicking. That’s about right, I think - any sooner and it would have ruined the precious days I had to enjoy myself in the city. I’d been ruminating on the precursors of these feelings for about 24 hours so I’d diagnosed them as a combination of trepidation, anxiety and guilt. I have felt all these before, in this situation before. Sitting in an American departure lounge at sunset took me back most immediately to my life in Atlanta: a leapfrog of a memory recollection going back almost 9 years, 3 careers and what feels like a couple of other me’s.

It’s the return to me that I think I feel this over. In Atlanta it was the same – my house, my car, my job and the utter the lack of distraction: once I’m left alone regardless of how comfortable or not the situation I’m going back to, I panic. Those past times I was most frequently leaving family. I used to feel the same on my weekend trips home during university. I feel shame over this fear of loneliness. I think I’m supposed to be confidently forging my own life but I it’s times like this that I think I’d much rather just seek to live in the company of someone else. Maybe that’s the guilt I feel: having stopped paying attention to anything and anyone other than the one I’ve been sleeping with for the last week or so.

If I were to summarize the trip in a word, it would be ‘intense’. I only had 3 days in any one place. I got my new passport in London. I met my new niece. I saw my father for the first time in almost 10 years. I spent the better part of an impromptu romantic weekend in bed.

Because it feels like I live only for a week every two months, I emerge from here with a huge and overriding sense of need - not just for physical contact, but also for conversation, intimacy, food, music, even the fluff of pop culture that I used to disdain. One accomplishment of this overall experience is that I think I don’t let these feeling surface as much. Another is that if they do show they're somewhat justified. I’m better at managing the (perhaps) over-importance I place on each interaction – or maybe I’m just better at choosing to interact with people who are less perturbed by them. This transition: here-there-back-again is almost as big and as difficult a part of the experience as just being here is.

It was a good trip and a hard one to come back to work from. I was so engrossed in being away that my return was poorly planned. I didn't download any tv series or movies and I forgot to buy dried fruit. I simply didn’t have the energy to do it. I think that means I’m getting tired. I also found out on return that my boss wouldn’t approve the trip for me to go and pick up our new cars from Nairobi. Arse. It’s going to be a boring and fructose-less two months.

The first few weeks were rough. I wasn’t on my game and the challenges kept on coming. I was making progress, but without my rhythm I was missing opportunities, wasting time, not thinking things through, and not rising to events as fast as I should. This is a dangerous position to be in. As with my feelings of complacency before, I know this is when stupid things start happening. But rather than slapping myself into shape, I tended to cower and just hope that nothing bad happened.

Progress was most evident in the new offices and new staff that were up and running across all five of my states of operation. Real work was being done, and communities that otherwise would have been missed were receiving messages of the importance and how to register to vote. On top of the usual challenges of a huge area, poor roads, poor communications and near total illiteracy rates, we also had to contend with the fact that the electoral commission still had yet to release (or decide) exactly when, where or how people were to register. My staff has grown to 66 and I’m working through about $200k a month.

One of my staff, Yeni is working alone in Western Bahr-el Ghazal - a hotly political and under-populated state, and in whose capital, Wau, I have my new office. I’ve been unable to find a manager for that position for murky reasons, my first two choices dropping out, so Yeni has been doing a reasonable job working alone. If I were on form I’d have gone with Yeni when he arrived to personally make all the necessary introductions and probably would have been back to visit to make sure his progress was ok. I’d made initial introductions to the authorities in August, but the rest I left if for him to do while I got back to dealing with the 90+ messages a day that were arriving in my inbox, the visiting finance director and minor drama in 4 other states, including lost equipment, a motorbike accident, dissenting key members of staff and a missing $5000. Everything seemed to be happing in a fairly regular order but with alternating events at the opposite ends of the country. I simply needed to be in 2 places at once and realized that I really need a deputy.

I got to Wau to check the progress of my new office opening to find it in good nick, thanks to Acuil’s efforts. It was the sight of this place that motivated me to opt to stay longer than my initial 3-month contract. I could see myself being comfortable here – a spacious, real office, a real house, running water, a kitchen. It was fully functional by the time I arrived, and I indulged in a monthly Internet subscription that was fast enough to allow video and audio streaming = live radio (cost = $1000 per month). On my first night there I cooked my own dinner while listening to radio 4. I could have been in Chalk Farm, the only things missing were the orange juice, the hommous and the broccoli.

I’d caught up with Yeni to find his progress mediocre. I dispatched him to a far corner of the state to ensure we made at least some impact in each county and decided myself to go and progress things in the closer places where he’d made somewhat of a start. Over two days I moved around tasking community volunteer groups with public events. I congratulated myself for finally getting off my arse and doing something useful.

The spell was abruptly broken as I returned to Wau on the second afternoon – a Sunday. As I got back into network coverage my phone began ringing almost incessantly but the caller could not get more than a few words out before the line cut. I got back to an empty compound. The manager of a nearby NGO compound came up moments after I arrived with the news that our people had been arrested – Acuil included.

I was called to the house of chief of police where the group of very simple community volunteers and my very savvy compound manager, Acuil were sitting in the courtyard. “Your people have been arrested making an illegal registration in the community.” I spent the next three days running between the offices of national security, the police, the public prosecutor’s office and the office of the complainant – the State Electoral Committee: the body we are meant to be here assisting.
A sour and petty Chairman was upset that we had not come to his office to make a personal introduction before starting our work in the state. Despite having authorization (and the all important stamped and signed letter) from the national committee in Juba (and his bosses), he felt – somewhat rightly - that we should have presented ourselves first. I accepted this and apologized for our oversight. This I understood. But what the bastard wouldn’t do was retract his complaint – uncaring to the fact that 11 people were sitting in a jail that smelled like a toilet.

The group was moved from the national security offices, who said they had no case, to the CID cells – they smelled even worse and actually doubled as a toilet. They also, I later found out, had no charge, but since they were holding them anyway started looking for one. They were having trouble so started questioning me and my organization. “You are Arab and a spy from the North or from Israel!” I couldn’t help but laugh at that. It was a rare moment of humour in a few days where I felt powerless, vulnerable, and afraid of being at the whim of these illiterate idiots. They basically said they wouldn’t release them – making excuses about needing a letter from national security (who had already called to clear them) and the need for a written redaction of the complaint form the electoral committee (who were sulking).

One of my staff from a neighbouring state cam to assist – an ex-politician with clout and the ability to speak for hours about somewhat related, but not directly relevant topics to the matter at hand. THIS is the support I needed. What we westerners interpret as directness and clarity here is perceived as insolence and impatience. He handled the situation very well. I also realized that they all knew each other from years ago and from serving in the militias. I wasn’t sure if the need for explanation and the running around was only for my benefit.

At the end of the third day there was still no formal charge. At that point a calm and reasonable public prosecutor revealed that there was also personal complaint from one of the police officers, but that just seemed to be an ex-comrade taking advantage of the opportunity to express and old grudge against Acuil. Whilst leafing through his copy of the Sudan Penal Code, the prosecutor said that he couldn’t find any charge that either complaint could be turned into so said we could take everyone home…”but you might have to bring them back tomorrow.” We found somewhere for the group to stay the night and dropped off lots of soap and bottles of Dettol.

I now much better understand why people here care more about status and favour than doing an assigned job well or to completion.

The next day I was driving off to another site in the bush and realized both how lucky I am to have come out of that experience safely for myself and my team, and how lucky I am to be having these experiences. Although stressful and worrying, I’m now suddenly energized, committed and determined. This might just partly be because I can now see how much it matters and how hot a subject what we’re involved in is. I can see what we need to do to make sure that this doesn’t happen again and have put these things in place. I feel similarly about many things – including clearing the blocked fuel line on the way back from said bush. At the risk of sounding self-congratulatory, I think I’m doing something that few people could pull off and I’m doing it moderately well. This is worth working for. Maybe I am confidently forging my own life, after all.

I just need to remember that. The new office with its 24 hour power, fast 24 hour internet and facilities for cooking and washing up makes a big difference, too. I’ll be on the road a lot for the rest of the time I’m here, but coming back to that will make the experience more pleasant. I can again listen to and disdain the pop culture fluff as it plays in the background on internet radio, and feel connected to the world in the way that the BBC worldservice just can’t do for me.

I’ve stopped looking for jobs as it feels like I’m getting nowhere. Nothing I see advertised in the UK excites me and I’m getting no love from the applications I‘m sending to other international roles. My polite reminders that I’m still here for the leads I had don’t seem to be maturing and we’re heading into slow season for Thanksgiving and Christmas. This means I’ll be here till at least until March. If I’m staying till then, I may as well stay for the elections in April. It would be a shame to miss them after all this. That means staying until May 2010…a lot longer than my initial 6 month plan, and again longer than my planned 3 month return stint. 2 years is reasonable though. I’d have no problems making a clean break then, regardless of what’s going on here, or what there is to go to. Maybe my stashed savings should stay stashed for that unknown.

I’m in London for Christmas break: 23rd to 5th, with maybe a little trip to Europe somewhere in the middle. I’ll try and manage this transition better than the last.

Second Chances

2009-11-06T01:28:00.000-08:00

The welcome back was incredible. I’ve never felt so appreciated. It was amazing how quickly I felt unimportant in London. I thoroughly enjoyed that month and a half off and highly recommend it to anyone working. The break was so good because I was clear of my previous obligation and certain of the next that was coming. I landed on my feet, but not in the position I’d expected. The job in Afghanistan didn’t come through – so much for certainty. After 8 weeks and 3 interviews they decided that they couldn’t hire non-Americans. I think it was for the better as it seemed to be a little on the fly: definitely not the ideal situation when in a war zone. I found this out only a day after turning down CHF’s offer of return so Sudan for slightly more money. Arse.

I called CHF back (NB: I did not grovel) and said that I would be available to help get the new project started and could come back short-term (if they were lucky). An HR bod called me back after a day or two to offer me $300 a day as a consultant for a 3 month contract. I figured it would take her a day or two to realize how much money that was and to call me back. They did so with a new offer - revised downward, but still favourable. In the absence of better offers, I accepted a start date of the following week.

That was a good week. I would look up at flights crossing London thinking that I would soon be joining them to jet off and do something useful. I love having a sense of purpose and quickly forgot the frustrations of working in Sudan for my organization -- besides, it would only be short term. While the break was good I quickly missed feeling important, wanted, valued and unique. I quickly got tired of London life. Conversation is complaint, people incessantly whinge and only talk to share their “nightmares” from the previous day: no hot water, having to wait all evening for the internet repair guy to come…

So back to Sudan for 12 weeks. Too much luggage again. It was a little surreal coming back and the first fortnight felt much like a dream. I was confident I could run this project in my sleep having written the proposal and worked in the same place and capacity for the last year. It’s not complex, and although getting through the very long to do list would require a frenetic pace, at least the tasks were clear.

The frustrations started before arrival. It was unclear whether or not I was booked on the flight until 10pm the night before to fly at 10am the next morning. They hadn’t arranged a visa, a hotel or transport in Nairobi. These frustrations I can manage, though, as long as I expect them and their approximate proportion.

I slipped into the routine of work relatively quickly, allowing myself a week of adjustment. The greatest effort was learning to care again: that unpaid tax, the yet to do final report.... I bounced between thoughts of how happy I was to be back and how thankful I was that I would only have to put up with these frustrations for 12 weeks. I predicted that this was actually going to be a little mechanical… someone had warned me that nothing’s quite as good the second time around.

6 weeks later Isaac Bol died. At that point I just didn’t have the emotional resources to mount a response. I didn’t act soon enough by sending him in a car to take him to the hospital. For that I felt extreme guilt. So much had not happened that was supposed to while I was gone and in the absence of leadership petty fighting a bickering had broken out in the team. It had taken me this long to wrest back control on the project and make any kind of dent in the new project I was supposed to be implementing. I uncovered incidents of fraud, theft and outright incompetence that had led to the loss of a lot of money, and the potential for a lot more.

Security outside the compound seemed to be falling to shit. 140 were killed in a single week in Jonglei. What was disturbing was that this wasn’t for the usual purpose of cattle or child raiding, it was just internecine violence. The attackers had very new Kalashnikovs. I was stuck in Juba for a week as the town underwent surprise disarmament. 2 MPs were caught fleeing the city with cars full of anti-aircraft guns.

There’s a common practice of referring to the boss as ‘father’. Any head is generally seen as the provider, benefactor and caregiver. And while this position is served, serviced and respected, it is also the point of call for assistance in times of need. Although I love all the attention and respect I’ve earned by my large and growing team, the fairly constant stream of visitors to announce births, marriages, sicknesses, emergencies, needs, requests for loans on top of the day job can get a bit overwhelming.

I got back to Rumbek after 3 weeks on the road. That week, one staff was stung by a scorpion, another ambushed and lost one of our motorbikes, and Bol fell seriously ill. I was the port of call for all cases. The local government hospital is appalling – I learnt this on having to retrieve Makuac the previous year from an appendix surgery from which he went septic twice. The nearest reasonable care is in Mapurtit, 2.5 hours away by car. At 4pm, it was too late to send a car. I didn’t want to have the driver out that late and he’d racked up much too much overtime. In an off-handed manner I told them to wait until the morning and if Bol was still unwell, to go to the hospital then.

Did I kill a man just because I wanted to avoid having to shell out 5 hours of overtime pay? By the time they reached the hospital he was in worse shape. They radioed 2 days later to tell us he died – acute cerebral malaria and syphilis.
I think there was nothing more I could have reasonably done – I tell myself. No matter what I do, it’s never enough. This place will consume me if I let it. While waiting too long to send a car to save him was an error, I did well to send one immediately to retrieve the body. This, I later found out, allowed him to be buried at home and for his family and to hold a service for him. I attended the funeral that weekend that lasted a 11 hours and I was a star guest. His widow, family and pastor made constant references to my presence as further evidence of my respectfulness, generosity and uprightness… all the while me thinking that actually, I contributed to his death. I took and made best use of my second chance without knowing it. Sadly there wasn’t a second chance for Bol.

They slaughtered a cow on his grave. It was a colourful day: fluorescent red blood, spilling on the ochre red soil and the feet of the liquorice-black pastor with the bright purple shirt next to the pale white guy who was trying not to look awkward. I wanted a photo.

Ramadan came and went. This time was easier than last year. No real illness, but I lost 8kgs. I looked forward to my leave in 2 weeks.

A modest escape

2009-07-10T16:11:00.000-07:00

Zacharia threw his pen down on the desk in anger and grabbed his head in despair. Mr. Bol, the old watchman, placed his hands on his hips and slowly shook his head “no, no, no. Not good.” Keat sent me an email, expressing that he’d put his plans to go to university that year on hold in order to keep working for me, and that I should therefore reconsider. In an extremely inexpressive culture, I found these responses to the news of my departure very touching.

Respite from the onslaught of running the program came in an unexpected form: notice of separation from my employer effective 30 June. Because I am paid by the budget/project that I manage, when that project ends, so too, in theory, does my employment. My employer is obligated to give me 30 days notice of this (never mind that it came on 11 June). The project is officially supposed to conclude on 30 June and no new project has yet been signed, despite 4 months of negotiation on the proposal we submitted. So, come 30 June, I’m officially out of a job.

Now I knew that I didn’t have to take that letter seriously. I’d got one before, back in April.

That time I played pragmatist, kept on working, found a new project, almost singlehandedly prepared a bid and won it, kept myself and my team in employment, kept an office open and won my employer $89k. You see, I’m not entirely sure why we call ourselves a non-profit organization. We are entitled to take 17% of each grant we manage as a Negotiated Indirect Cost Recovery (NICRA) to cover things like plush offices in DC and the occasional regional meeting in Zanzibar.

I asked for raise. Declined. I asked to cash in on my unaccompanied baggage allowance and bring back with me a mountain bike from my leave. Declined – I’m only allowed to take that at the beginning of my placement apparently. They seemed oblivious to the fact that I was doing them a favor by not packing my bags and taking them up on the offer to fly me home – and then back again once an extension was agreed. When I suggested this I got an icy response from a particular HR person (let’s call her “M”), whom I’ve always sparred with. It read something to the effect of:

“While we appreciate your desire to save CHF costs, that is not the primary motivating factor for what we do. We must all, first and foremost, adhere to staff policy.”

I should have told them to piss of then – partly because such snooty tones are mine alone to use in correspondence, and partly because of the ridiculousness. I remember my predecessor saying “do they have any clue what I’ve gone through for them?” But I didn’t tell them to piss off, I got on with the work, they rescinded the separation letter 2 days before the separation date and I just continued in the job. It’s not that I had that much faith in them, rather I like the idea of having a job in an economic downturn.

This time it was different. After a grueling 6 weeks (loss: 320,000 mosquito nets, profit: 2 goats and a chicken), ugly and infected bites on my arse, complete failure of my organization’s local HR/administrative/financial functions (I’d been acting as finance officer for the last 2 months), the notice of separation letter was a welcome invitation to take a break. My response on the 12^th read something to the effect of:

“Dear M, Thank you for the notice of separation letter and in accordance with staff policy I’d like to start preparing for my flight back to the UK. I have 9.5 annual leave days and 4.5 sick leave day remaining. My last day to work was therefore yesterday. Would you like to start making the travel arrangements or should I?”

My blissfully oblivious line manger who’d been copied on all these messages finally acted, but only by going into a panic and arranging to fly in. Really, I should not have received that letter. My line manager should have been aware of where I was with my projects, known that we’d have worked out a one month extension and known that there was no way for me to wrap up and get out by the end of the month. But if he didn’t know by that point, I wasn’t about to volunteer it nor make a sacrifice for it. I was dreaming about getting on a flight out and getting someone competent to look at my arse (in a medical (clinical) capacity, that is).

But no one moved to stop me so I went about my last week saying goodbye to people in a very low-key way. I wasn’t entirely certain that I could get out, and a week is a long time for things to go wrong here. As word spread through the team every person came to confirm individually and express regrets. I’m not sure if it’s just expressing what the boss expects to hear, almost all of them owing me money, or if there was genuine sadness at the prospect of me leaving. An expat colleague in Nairobi said that her experience was that if they’re happy to see you go they make no effort to hide it.

I wasn’t filled with any significant feeling that week as it felt right to be leaving. I was excited over the fact that I’d had one phone interview and a second arranged after a few days for another job that seemed like a very good possibility. I was certain that I didn’t like being in South Sudan, but I knew that I’d miss my team. We’d become effective colleagues and good friends, but I felt that the balance was shifting to the latter and I wasn’t sure how much longer my authority over them would last. Time to go.

On the Monday I left the office was a hive of activity. 4 cars were going in 4 different directions with just about everyone in them. Each came to say goodbye before he left. Victor is the youngest driver, illiterate, incredibly hard working and good-natured. He’s playful, mischievous and is fun to be around. I’d hired him about 7 months ago on a whim – one of the best decisions I’ve made, and we’d worked a lot together since. I helped him when his son had died, tried to teach him some writing, and had loaned him some cash. He repaid this by his complete dedication to anything I asked him to do. I felt very protective of him and think that if I had a younger brother, this is what the relationship would be like. That morning I had to reprimand him for not showing up to work on Saturday, but I followed it by giving him my iPod and FM transmitter so as not to end on a bad note.

I stood in the driveway to wave goodbye and he walked up with his hand outstretched. We held hands for a moment and he dropped his head as if thinking about what to say. He then suddenly dropped my hand and threw his arms around me, resting his head on my chest. He squeezed, then quickly let go and ran back to his car and drove away. He was crying. I was too.

I’m not going to miss Rumbek or Sudan much but I will miss these characters. The playful and athletic Victor, the hulking prima donna Acuil and the little big man Zacharia. I think they really don’t want me to go, partly because of he friendships we’d developed but also because its become clear that I held a significant amount of their well-being in my hands. There’s a lot to worry about in times of uncertainty here – it’s not just the inconvenience of having to look for work, it’s a complete livelihood. Responsible for hiring, firing and fixing salaries, I had a lot of clout. Schmooze and personal favour go along way and for someone like Victor who can only prove his professional skills in person on and over time, having an in is everything. He’d have no in if he had to move jobs and knew that my hiring him was pure chance. Despite the occasional arrogance that my employees would sometimes display the overall desperation for work was indicated by the flood of applicants that arrived the moment a job notice was posted.

It was, by no means, a great escape. The plane left on time, almost without me. I got to Nairobi and enjoyed hot water, a good meal and a conformable bed. A beautiful and flirtatious Somali doctor told me that my ass was in good shape, the bites noting to worry about and then asked “shall I deworm you?” For a moment I thought it was going to involve more than just some tablets.

I’d planned on being stuck in Nairobi for a week of treatment, but now with an all clear I had time on my hands. Qatar airways had an offer to Kuala Lumpur for less than a grand, so I bought a ticket. The city, beaches, fruits and food were a great break from what I came from, and indeed where I might be going to. I got a verbal offer on a job in Afghanistan. CHF has also asked me to come back to run the next project, but the agreement’s not been signed (still), and I’m not sure if I’ve the wherewithal to go back. That didn’t stop me from asking for a hefty raise and saying I could only go back if they met this and some other conditions. Good to keep my options open. I kind of feel like I said goodbye to Sudan though, and as much as I care about the individuals I worked with I doubt my being there Is going to make their, or anyone else’s lives better. The country is sliding down the tubes (http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/jun/21/sudan-humanitarian-disaster) and it seems almost certain that when the upcoming elections and referendum don’t yield the desired results for the South, they’ll just go to war again. Save for erecting a steel fence round the compound and keeping everyone inside, I can’t save them.

I might go back on a short-term contract just to close up and hand over the project. If not I’ll probably just keep in contact with a couple of them whichever way I can. I feel like I’m already being swept away and didn’t even get to say a proper goodbye to Africa in Nairobi (whatever that might look like) because I missed my flight in KL and only had 4 hours to make my connection to London.

Ah well, chapter over. I think I left Sudan a little better off, even if there is little objective measure of the fact and hardly anyone said it. I’ve sure as hell earned my stripes – in people management, off road driving, car repairs, budget design, language and overall self-confidence I feel I’ve come a long way. I need to work out a way to retain these lessons. I’ve learned before that after gaining skills in a foreign land my memory alone of them is neither objective nor conveyable. Most job interviewers thought I was lying when I recounted my management of a volunteer program in Ghana. Maybe I just sounded too arrogant. Maybe I’ve not come a long way in that respect, but I’m kicking myself for not getting more people to visit me in Rumbek. I managed a good operation there and was pretty fabulous. You’ll just have to take my word for it. Sudan made me so. I am grateful to it for that.

I’m in London for a few weeks to see what’s next. I’ll reflect on the last year, so while I’m no longer in Sudan (mooting the title for this blog), I might make one more entry. That makes it very much like the whole experience: ups & downs, goods & bads, semi-conclusive, somewhat interesting, and very self-indulgent.

Thanks for coming.

Bad Karma Season

2009-07-01T03:40:00.000-07:00

After 5 weeks it was as bad as I’d expected, but not in the way I expected. The rains came early and then stopped meaning that I was only up to my ankles in mud, rather than my elbows. I was still up to my eyes in sodding mosquito nets, though.

My trepidation over coming back was lost in routines and daily processes. It was an all out sprint up to that point and I’d not given myself a single day off in that time. I was very weary. The team was getting sick and were bickering. I’d been bitten my more insects than I can count and the variety of bites ranged from small ones that itch, to huge ones that blister to ones on my arse that felt like golf balls, were incredibly painful, oozed pus and seemed to be growing.

Distribution is always hard, but I really wasn’t enjoying this. On top of the logistical challenges (5 of the 40-ft containers were dropped In the wrong place and were held hostage by the local authorities) the hostility from communities was still very much present. The local hires were even worse and expected payment for merely showing up, let alone for making any effort. There were no requests, only demands. They whinged. They made bad decisions and then came expecting me to pick up the tab. They had no concept of an inappropriate demand. “You have to come back and transport me," he was one of 60 people working. They did things inconsistently: sometimes signing the white cover sheet, sometimes the blue carbon-copy sheet, sometimes every sheet. There was a pathologic laziness, I think attributed to the complete lack of belief of contribution to a common cause. If I had their government I might feel the same. My attitude took a turn for the worse: I was filled with thoughts of “fuck off then, keep your malaria and your country will still be shithole in 10 years time.”

One instance I’m particularly proud of: a hired truck got stuck on a pathetically easy road and was holding up an entire county’s distribution. We arrived to find the driver casually digging one wheel out, the mate doing a very half-arsed job with some sticks (he was still drunk from the night before) and the site managers we’d hired travelling with the nets to their distribution sites just sitting under a nearby tree. I got to digging, but after an hour there was no progress. We were going nowhere, the sun was blistering and we were all in fear of the rains in a place where one good downpour could completely strand you – no going forward, no backward. We were faced with the options of keeping to dig, offloading the 7 tons of cargo to try to move the truck, or abandoning it. I asked our driver to back our vehicle up to see if we could try and pull him out (a long shot, I’ll admit), and he lazily reclined with the others saying “the truck won’t move”. I flipped. “FINE, don’t fucking move and be like every other bloody African sitting on your arse doing nothing waiting for anther white man to come and solve your problems for you.”

He moved the car quickly -- he was still in the dog house for getting stuck on a similarly stupid road only the week before and doing significant damage to the car. The truck actually didn’t move, but it was worth the try. Another driver and one of the guys went back later to help dig it out and it got moving. I had to load the landcruisers 4 times from the truck to drop nets off. By the time it got moving it only had half of its load remaining. What a frickin waste of money. I shouldn’t have trusted the truck owner, I shouldn’t have trusted the driver.

I know my anger puts me in the wrong, but what bothers me is that I need to continually question everyone’s judgement. My driver got his car stuck the previous week by flooring it when he was sinking in mud. He only dug himself deeper. He then shifted in 4L, revved the engine again to about 5k and spun the wheels up to about 40kph. The stress on the engine was too much – the fan clutch broke, cracked the seal on the water pump, and the fan came off and punctured the radiator. We stood helplessly and watched litres of coolant spilling out and mixing with the mud. The fan had been missing a blade for weeks, apparently, but he didn’t feel that was a significant issue. I should have stopped him, I should have questioned him, I should have checked the engine before we got moving. I should have done a lot of things. It resulted in a $1000 repair for which I had to walk back to the nearest village 15km away. We found a car and some guys to tow us out, pulled the car back to Bunagok, took out the radiator and car-hopped back to Rumbek 4 hours away. We returned with parts and a mechanic . 4 days lost, but at least now I know how to replace a water pump and timing belts. I think I don't shout at people enough - this was just a result of his carelessness and laziness.

My days on work were spent out in the communities organizing the distributions. Altogether it was a slight boiler-room effect, hence my hostility. My off days I came back to Rumbek. The compound was an oasis of calm friendly faces compared to the hostility of the communities. I’d come back feeling raw having been bombarded from every direction – even from my employer. The respect and friendliness of my staff was a welcome confirmation that I was doing at least something right. Their loyalty was expressed a number of ways, but I was most touched by their dedication to the work. Is it because I just posted job ads for the new project?

Thankfully it only took me about a day out of the boiler room to gain a healthier perspective, but those couple of weeks were just bad karma season. I got back to the compound to find 2 compound staff in jail (jealous boyfriend is a SPLA commander) and another grieving the death of her brother in recent tribal violence. The driver that got us stuck had fallen ill in the field so I had been doing all the driving for about 5 days. When we returned he needed to go in for surgery for piles, but this meant I had to take him to the Comboni mission in Mapourdit for surgery, two hours away. The local government hospital nearly killed another of my employees last year. Whilst Samuel was recovering from his surgery two hours away, his 9 month-old son died. We had an enquiry to the compound– for condolences for him? No, to inform us that he knocked a girl up last time he was in Wau and the family is demanding marriage (would be number 3). I drove out to bring him back to Rumbek and he was racked with grief over his son. 13 died in fighting around Rumbek that week and another 10 or so the week after. Many more were injured...So much for my “off days”. I think the world would remain out of order until the rains properly came. I held a staff meeting with the guys the following Monday and bribed them to keep working with a cash bonus – I called it an education allowance. Thankfully, the project remained on track and way under-budget – mostly due to hard bargaining on truck rentals to move the nets around the state.

I took my 30^th birthday as an excuse to take the first weekend I’d had in 6 weeks. Aside from the morning trip out to bring Samuel back (which did actually give me the opportunity to test drive Monica - our newly returned landcruiser), I just chilled and looked vacation destinations and other jobs. I know that I’m not going to be able to affect the rain or the tribal fighting, but a change in attitude would probably help a bit. A week on a beach and shiny new job (or at least hope of each) would help a lot more.

Shedding Skin

2009-04-30T10:51:00.000-07:00

An alternate perspective on the last couple of weeks:

I left for my leave just as dry season came to an end. The first rain in 5 months came as a surprise one afternoon and quickly reminded me why those first few months were so challenging. Even after a brief shower the dust turns back to mud almost instantly - like it’s only been pretending to be anything other than mud for the last 5 months.

It’s quite an assault on the skin. My palms seem to be peeling, but that might be a result of some skin infection. There’s also a slight rash on my arms that I hope, along with the sloughing skin on my hands, will come off with a good scrubbing and regular showering in clean water over the break. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt here it’s that these things, like the grime on my computer or my persistent, low-level diarrhoea, are only temporary.

The exit from Sudan was welcome. It’d been 13 weeks since my last trip out. I found the huge indecision about the project and potential for a future lack of money actually quite stressful, despite my thinking that everything was ok. On reflection I probably wasn't sleeping very well and the diarrhea had actually been a little worse than low-level. Each time my funder changed their minds about something (which was very frequent) we’d have to re-submit our proposal. I practically wrote 4 in the last 3 months. It was like working for Bridget Jones. A 2-month gap in funding was becoming imminent.

I managed to work out and sign an agreement with another organization to take on some work in the gap. PSI has given us half a million to distribute mosquito nets (making the title of this blog invalid). But we know the area and how to do distribution, so I was hoping it will be kinda easy... but the mud seems to be reproducing, we’re supposed to hit every household in the state and it’s a shocking number of nets: 560,000. As I was lounging on my break one day, after being force-fed by my grandmother I got a call: “we’re delivering the 12 40-ft containers to you tomorrow. Where do you want them?”

Oh crap, this is going to be hard.

On the flight back to London and again on the flight to Amman I found a new American comedy series: a little cheesy, but very funny. In Samantha Who, an amnesiac explores her old life, finding a lot of resentment and discovers to her shock how much of a bitch she used to be. Her mission becomes tying to convince everyone that she’s now a different person.

I’m finding a few parallels. I’d not seen and barely spoken to a Michael in Birmingham since my visit last July following a fall out. Rob seemed generally unwilling to lift a finger for me when I asked him to bring something back with him from the US. Dapo inferred that he’d only have 30 minutes free in two weeks to meet. Tola was happy to meet, but only at certain day, time and a place and told me honestly that she didn’t expect the meeting to happen.

Maybe it’s just city life, time is short and I’m filled will a little too much self importance, but while I don’t expect everyone to free their whole weeks for me, I’d like to think these friends would want to meet me in this limited opportunity. I genuinely sensed that I was being treated with caution, though. I asked Rob to suggest why this was the case.

“You’re a bit needy.”

Tola: “Insensitive.”
Olu: “You can be a dickhead.”
Dapo: wouldn’t return my calls.

So this is a negative highlight of some much larger and actually positive interactions, but I have to heed the criticism. I’m not taking any as gospel (especially given that the last three come from Nigerians, one of whom is a woman), but taking some time away and returning to still find the people I used to see regularly has been very revealing.

In thinking about my past interactions with these different friends in different places I’m reminded of a lot of things. I don’t think was consistently the only wrongdoer, but I wholeheartedly participated in the interaction. My time away has given me both the objectivity and the confidence to be honest about what I did. I subscribed to the games of city life and considered most interaction a competition. I was very competitive. I sought reason to disdain others. I lived a very narrow life of work, gym, cycling and a few not so healthy social interactions. I gave very few people the time or the attention they deserved. I took advantage of their generosity, and was distracted by shallower but prettier individuals. I would routinely put my own needs above others or only gave on my own terms.

Again, a worst-case appraisal, but as the evidence mounted I felt much like the amnesiac in discovering how much of a bitch I, too, used to be.

But I’m not the only one. Everyone in London seems to be doing it to each other. You can see it in the interactions on the street and the phone conversations you overhear. This is how we treat each other there. Had my friends not subscribed and regularly done the same, even to me, they probably would have told me to piss off at the first and friendship wouldn’t have developed.

Far from a mea culpa, hanging out and seeing these friends again was a lot of fun. It was good to catch up on their job changes, new houses, responses to the economic crises and their weight loss/gain. I’ve said this before, but my fears about being away and missing life are unwarranted. Contact is diminished whilst I’m away, partly because communications channels are unreliable, but mostly because everyone now seems to have an iphone and corresponds with at most 2 lines of text. But life is still there: the shops and restaurants and streets remain. So do friends, I guess – at least the ones good enough to forgive my faults, hear an apology and recognize the changes for the better my time away is yielding in me. I feel like I’ve shed some skin…and my palms still are.

On the whole I had a wonderful time in Birmingham, London and with family in Amman. As friend Olu said – “it only took about a year and a half to clear the air”.

So I’m better off from being out here. This is the point at which I want to pause things, though. I’m at a turning point, I think, in which I could return to life in London quite easily. A year away wouldn’t look so anomalous on CV if I were applying for work. More importantly, though I’d like to be able to put into effect what I’ve learned about myself and be a new and better (though much less fit) person with the people who care about and matter to me.

Reading past entries, though, I can see I’ve said this before.

But jobs seem to be drying up, even in the public sector. Some of these friends will be out of work in 2 months. I’m not sure hoe long I could remain invested in a desk-job in London again, especially in a Local Authority. That would be the easiest route of return. I still don’t know what I want to do in life. My indecision is illustrated by the jobs I’ve applied to recently in: Makasar, Indonesia; Hilla, Iraq, Niarobi, Kenya & Barnet Council, London. There’s a lot I dislike about the aid industry and it’s very easy to spot those who have been in it for too long. I don’t want to be part of the crowd.

Like anything, if I want it to happen I can make it so. Nairobi seems like an exciting and realistic opportunity that would bring me back a little bit towards civilization. I need to start looking at London jobs too. I’m sure there’s something out there that would entertain me.

Again, I’m caught between the personal reasons to come back and the professional reasons to stay. Coming back here form some satisfyingly personal interactions with family and friends makes the prospect of staying very hard. Despite the fact that I stocked up with over 50kgs of tea, honey, dried fruit, toothpaste, facewash, books, music and porn, the next few moths of distribution are not going to be easy. I hope that my mesoderm toughens up fast.

Complacency

2009-04-29T07:33:00.000-07:00

I had 2 phones stolen the other week and with them all of my work contacts. I was in Juba at the mosque at the time. I’m surprisingly unfazed by this. I’ve been here almost a year…in fact I’ve never had a phone stolen, so I reckon I’m due. I left them in the glove compartment of a locked car as I went into Jumah prayers. When I came back the car was still locked but the phones were gone. I guess if I’m stupid enough to be separated form my phones and the thieves are industrious/socially responsible enough to get into a locked car and lock it again on the way out, it’s fair.

I left my sunglasses on the counter of Nairobi duty free.

I have worms again – second time in 3 months.

I’m getting complacent. After almost a year I’ve grown comfortable and accustomed to a lot of things. I no longer crave fruits and vegetables like I used to and barley notice that a week or two will pass without my having seen either. I never use sunscreen and I stopped taking malaria prophylaxis. I carry my passport, wallet, cash, laptop and identity documents all in the same backpack.

Getting comfortable definitely has its advantages. I’m no longer panicked by the day’s events and I’m having trouble remembering a day that involved even a moderate level of stress. Getting to this point hasn’t been easy and has involved a lot of work. I’ve trained my staff as best I could to carry out the program so it’s no longer a one-man show. We now function very effectively as a team and the objective feedback of some visitors in the past weeks has confirmed this.

But comfortable and complacent are not far apart, and as the intestinal parasites and lost goods show, there is a cost. I’m thankful that it’s a manageable condition and a replaceable item. If it were my computer or passport lost I’d probably have cried.

Am I getting so careless that it’s just a matter of time before I allow something much worse to happen? I keep coming back to this – try to think of it as a recurrent theme rather than an incessant whinge - but is it time to come home?

If on the whole I’m about as happy as I am in London, it’s better to come back, no? At least there I can eat normally, exercise enough and not worry about intestinal parasites.

I resolved to take a cerebral sabbatical and just go on leave. I booked an ambitious trip: Nairobi for 2 days of meetings, London for a day, Birmingham for 2, in London for 4 days, Amman for a week via Dubai, back to London for the weekend, then to Nairobi for 2 more days and then back to Sudan.

The trip started well. Productive meetings with my boss’, boss’ boss and on the night I left a playful and very smiley little man at the airport suggested that I could get something for a small fee. I bribed him $200 and got a first class upgrade. He even followed me on board to ensure I got the seat I wanted. Does that mean I overpaid him? I tend to question self-indulgence (save for in my writing), but had no qualms reclining and drifting off in my rearward-facing sleeper seat as Africa and its parasites fell away into a beautifully moonlit night.

Hounslow 6am. Cold, drizzle, gray: THAT’S why I left.

Within a few hours I met my mother and brother from FL who booked a trip to coincide with mine. Sweet, huh? Well, not really: my brother broke his cheek bone in a Muai Thai fight and decided to indulge in a little medical tourism: whilst the UK is not renowned for facial corrective surgery, it is for free healthcare to its residents (taken liberally in my brother’s instance). I’m sure I factored into their decision to come and in the end it was my fault for not spending enough time together.

I don’t think I watched any news of read a newspaper whilst away. I think I was anxious about being back and rushed around in a slight panic trying to buy everything I could think of and ensuring that I spent as little time alone as possible. I got a new phone within hours of arriving.

Seeing family in Amman was good. I think it is a blessing, but absolutely no one has changed. My cousins are a bit taller and aunts a little fatter. My grandmother is still going strong. My aunts, uncles and cousins were all interested in my life in Southern Sudan, but on the whole seemed more concerned with my brother’s boxing injury than with the fact that I live in a war zone. No, I’m not jealous.

My cousin, Kholoud, won the Dead Sea marathon. I didn’t even know she ran. Apparently, she doesn’t. She planned on running the 10k, but her sister entered her online in the full marathon. She showed up and was given a blue marathon number but was told that it was too late the change. She just went to the 10k start and thought nothing of it.

She took her time to finish – a comic 2h 46m. After finishing she strolled back to the organizers tents to see what the commotion was about. She was quickly swept up in a small crowd of photographers and officials screaming, “you’ve won!”

The winner of the marathon distance had overcome the oppressive heat and pressure of the Dead Sea basin to compete the 26 miles in 2h 51m. Kholoud soon realized what had happened, and tried to correct it. Her sister could hear her shouting over the noise from the winner’s tent, “but I’m not blue!”

It really wasn’t long at all before her father had started calling his friends to express his pride in his daughter. By then there was no going back. When she told me the story she was trying to contact the actual winner to apologize and was considering whether to not accept the winning $1500 or donate it to a charity.

I remembered that I don’t like Arabs. My family is lovely but not immune form the very unpleasant characteristics of Arab culture hat seem to prevail more and more as Jordan’s wealth grows. Arrogant, condescending, snobbish, judgemental, living in perpetual fear of being judged. I see every quality I don’t like about myself magnified 10 fold in a nation. I also see the qualities of my father. There is one particular characteristic that I don’t share though, neither did he, and that is the almost unfailing ability of most Arab men (normally the slightly wealthy) to identify the underdog in a situation and make him/her feel even worse. As long as I stayed inside I was fine – and this was much to my grandmother’s approval. She fed me at least 5,000 calories a day.

I was a little anxious about the trip as I really wasn’t supposed to be taking the additional time off work. On the way there in Dubai at around 6:00am I was spotted in the departure lounge by the Country Director of the organization that’s giving my team a good chunk of cash to distribute mosquito nets for the next couple of months. Marcie, who manages a good few dozens of millions of dollars of funding in Sudan, spotted me whilst I was picking my nose I think: It was 6am and I live in Africa so have no qualms doing such things in public.

“Aren’t you supposed to be distributing my mosquito nets?”

I said I’d get right on it after a little break with the family. She was going to a 4-day long conference that was going to trap her in a very plush hotel, but all week. I insisted that she join me the following Thursday to get out and see a bit more of the town. My family arranged a big dinner for that, my last night, so I just invited her – aware that the results could either be very positive or absolutely disastrous. The personal/professional barrier had already been crossed at the nose-pick, I think.

Aunts’ verdict at the end of the night was: well dressed, very professional, but too old for me. My uncle and cousin suggested that she should make a plan for her life to progress from her administrative role. She took that mis-assumption well, but I fear the wedding’s a non-starter. I think she had fun.

After dinner we went to a bar/café downtown that has a reputation for a very liberal crowd. Amman has become absolutely beautiful, and the social scene is thriving. I was so happy to bump into a friend who I’d met in Amman a few years ago and not seen since – but disappointed when the rules of Amman social interaction seemed to come back into force. He spent more time looking over my shoulder to see who was noticing us talking together. This is a common element of public social interaction – the thoughts go “who’ s looking, is it ok for me to be seen talking to this person, what will people say..?” One of the last times we met was at this café some years ago. We left and 5 minutes later he got a text message form an unknown number saying “what, you’re too good to hang out with Arabs now?” and I got one from an unknown number saying “who was that with you, is he single?”

I’ll go back many times to see my family, I think, but my desire to try to live there is gone. I’ve now seen much nicer places.

I think I’m getting old: the overnight airport stops take time to recover from. Arrived in Dubai at 9pm (via business class, but without having to bribe anyone), left for London at 3am steerage, arrived Gatwick 6:30am, cold, grey, drizzle…ok, I get the hint. The weekend was fun, but too short. I picked up a cold. I left on Monday at 10:20am…you got it: cold, grey, drizzle. It was a helpful shove to get on my way.

reality check

2009-02-02T01:48:00.000-08:00

I’ve still got blood on my shorts and shirt. It’s not mine. It’s dried now, looking a little less shocking. Talk about gaining perspective…

We came across a car wreckage on the side of the road about 20km from Aweil in Northern Bahr el Ghazal. The 5 or 6 passers by and 2 police officers that had gathered around had dragged the passengers into the shade of the shrubs alongside the wreckage and the road, and strewn up cloth to shade them from the sun. No one had done anything else for them and the crash had happened an hour and a half before. The first passenger had some bad scrapes, especially on his head, but the bleeding was subsiding. The second was in a similar situation but also with a broken upper arm. They were brothers.

The third was lying on his back struggling for air – it sounded like he had fluid in his chest. The first thing I noticed was his eyes: half open, vacant, cloudy. His left eye had a minute mound of orange dirt piled over the pupil. His right pupil had no shape. His arms held tightly to his chest. It was over 35 degrees and he was shivering. He was vacant but whimpered in pain when I tried to examine him. His pulse was strong and fast. His head was misshapen and spongy to the touch. What could I do for him?

The fourth was lying on his side in a semi-foetal position. He had an open fracture of his lower leg with a good portion of the bone protruding and was spilling bright red into a small growing pool at his feet. Small globules of fat reflected the sun’s light. It covered my hands as I tried to bandage him with a rag someone fetched for me. He couldn’t move for the pain in his hip, but he could talk. His jaw looked broken and the skin had been shaved off his hand.

The fifth, the driver, was completely unscathed.

20 or 30 km to Aweil. A dirt and bumpy road. Two would be ok but had sufficient reason to complain about pain. The guy with the leg breaks I was worried for because the bleeding wasn’t stopping. I expected the guy with the head injury to die at any moment. I dithered, remembering that one of the most damaging things you can do for a person is move them…. but reasoned that that’s when you have alternatives of ambulances and paramedics. Here they would definitely die. Picking them up, moving them to my truck, piling them in, bumping them over 20 or so Km would do some damage, but we should reach the hospital fairly soon… I hope. A local guy’s impression of near or far is completely relative.

We waved down 2 other cars and put three passengers amongst them, laying the guy with the broken legs on the floor of a minibus. I put the guy with the head injury in the back of my car on the floor. The driver, a now-terrified looking Darfuri, held his head. The police officers looked on.

10 minutes into the journey he was foaming at the mouth. We were killing him but there was nothing we could do. I couldn’t put him into another position, hold his head back, or do anything that would help. We kept driving. When I looked back the police officer had covered his face with the sheet we’d carried him into the car on. It’s a cold equation of life, I suppose. A head injury like this will kill you and no matter the intention, strength, clarity or desire of those nearby, there is nothing they can do for you. I cried.

Our small convoy pulled up at the police station and the driver was plucked out. We continued to the hospital and after a 5 minute verbal battle with an administrator, found out where we should take them. All were still alive, even the guy with the head injury! Revival or presumptuous declaration of death? I had little time to reason as my hands were full and bloodied by the guy with the leg injuries I was carrying. Me moved into a dark room with 2 shuttered windows lit by a single incandescent bulb. The last patient’s blood was still on the metal exam table, his blood-stained dressings 1/3 on the table, 1/3 on the floor and 1/3 in the open, plastic waste paper basket. Had I really done these guys a favour by brining them here? The single medical assistant present looked terrified and to the yelps of the patient, moved his leg around which bent in inhuman ways.

The bones grated. The blood stank. A number of spectators piled into the room. Amongst those who came in was a mild mannered, handsome, well-dressed northern doctor who shouted only at the medical assistant. He was very interested in my involvement with his patient and offered to let me reset the bones. Civility returned to situation, they found the patient some morphine and I accepted the offer. He was stitched, bandaged and plastered quite quickly and quite professionally, but I still I thanked God it wasn’t me.

I found the guy with the head injury next door with a small group and a small American doctor attending to him. His heartbeat was still strong and fast, but they were breathing for him. They said he had no chance. They were about to stop ventilation when I left.

Whilst the lack of emotion certainly helped in getting them patched and to the hospital, it also meant that I felt such little compassion as almost not to stop for them. I struck the right balance by accident this time. I hope I have the sense, and the heart, to consciously do it again if ever I have to. I hope that’s not anytime soon though.

Surfacing – closer to life

2009-02-01T09:20:00.000-08:00

I’m not down with this. I come up for air only every two months allowing myself to be the person I think I am, rather than the person I need to be. It’s starting to hurt.

I fell in love in Cape Town and not with the city. This might not be entirely on this individual’s merits, though: it might just be because it was the first even semi-intimate human contact I’d had in months.

I have a bad habit from my upbringing: I have a poorly defined sense of what’s good for me. I take notions transiently from whoever’s in reach. This one was very different from any others I’d met; an artist: expressive and emotive, although quite self-absorbed. Beyond that (which I think is a result of the career) I found a lot of substance to a weak physical presence. I was indirectly and unintentionally led into feeling the moment. I followed willingly.

I’ve not done this for a long time. I’ve come to pride myself on my ability to detach emotion from the situation. Here it’s absolute necessity not only to stay happy, but to function. The fact is that I’m lonely – professionally and socially isolated. Why feel? What good will it do? More significantly, being here is an exasperation of what I’ve felt for a long time: I feel very much alone and have done so in most places I’ve lived.

One part of me alienates the other. Muslim friends and family wouldn’t accept a significant part of my life. Many struggle with the fact that I’m a practising Muslim and lead a very separate life from my family – or worse, they pity it. Muslims I know like me are very few and given their minority in a minority status, when we get down the person we just don’t get along. If you don’t drink, smoke or do any drugs, you tend not to fit in at parties. In most social gatherings people are demonstrably uncomfortable if you’re not drinking. If you don’t have an expensive enough bike you’ll be shunned when trying to join a cycling club. If someone is attracted to you and you can’t reciprocate, interaction is very awkward. If you don’t like football you won’t have anything to talk to other guys about. If you don’t watch TV you’ll have nothing to talk to colleagues about.

The biggest contributor to my alienation, though, has always been my disdain. I’ve considered interactions or friendships completely unsustainable if there’s something not right. I passed judgement based on someone’s single fault – whatever it may be and often far less serious than one of many of mine. I passed judgement on countries on an uninformed, assumed impression. Money mattered too much.

I learned to occupy a lonely space when a teenager. I was 15, foreign, thin, awkward and trying to find some way to express the misery and regret that was almost consuming me – it was largely teenage angst, but there was bit more to it. I expressed myself then mostly by listening to music. It hurt, but not as much as hearing that my father would refuse to speak to me a few years later. My father’s disowning me was the most painful thing that I experienced. It was 8 years ago, now. I survived by not feeling the pain.

So I progressed in life: clear, specific, reasoned, objective. Here I am.

I was unarmed to interact with someone so emotive in Cape Town. Maybe it was the nerves involved in sitting opposite someone I think I liked, but nothing I thought of could be called deep. I felt bland, plain, shallow, boring, clinical, cynical, petty, sullen, stunted, combative, sterile, dispassionate and monotone. I felt genuine envy for someone with such a strong integration into a culture, a belonging to something, and being amongst a community of friends.

We left things ambiguously – or rather dispassionately. Why get caught up if we’re in different countries? If not being together is the answer, what does it matter what we’re feeling, if we have any questions or with any of the other bullshit in-between?

Actually, it matters because stunting it hurt. It matters because here what do I have? Am I growing more literate, more informed, am I meeting new people ? To a degree, but I can’t grow in the ways I want and I’m certainly not integrating. I can fool myself into thinking I belong to something by sitting in a mosque, but in reality I can’t make an effort at friendships. I can’t make an effort with this one. Life is on hold again.

I’ve forgotten how unhappy I was 10 months ago in London. 10 months ago I’d forgotten how miserable I was when in the bush. I need to write things down more – hence this slightly more personal (and perhaps whingy) entry.

Life here is easier in many ways, or rather, I exonerate myself more easily from the blame of feeling lonely, detached or alienated. That is a significant relief. But an easier and more sustainable solution might have been to just get over it and continue living a real life in London.

I want to get closer to living and move back to London. This time I’ll unpack some boxes rather than keeping them ready to move again. I might hang some things on my wall. I’ll make myself a facebook profile. I’d like to buy a house and a car. Maybe they’ll even grant me a credit card…

Ah, who am I kidding? I’d get bored after a few months. I still have the attention span of a gnat and back in London I’d have a lot less to bitch, moan and write about. Actually I’m blessed for having a stable job and good income, insulated from the global economic meltdown, and to have good enough health to be left with a decision of where to go and what to do. That’s something to be happy for.

Ok, back to work. Dive, dive, dive…

Finally pubished

2009-01-29T22:57:00.001-08:00

Ok, not really - it's just a blurb that I wrote (and they edited poorly) on our website.

http://www.chfinternational.org/node/32849

(nearly) Washed Away and (very) Sucked In

2008-11-21T05:47:00.000-08:00

I got back to Sudan well rested, well fed and to good news. My employer offered to bring me on as a real employee. No more un-benefitted, un-insured consultancy status. Now the need to go to DC to attend orientation. A little silly, given that I’d been working for them for 6 moths already, but who am I to refuse a free flight?

Over the next couple of weeks we had training in Juba for our community workers so the decadence of a real abode continued, although for the same price of $200 in Sanaa I stayed in the beautiful 5* Movenpick. In Juba this gets you a Chinese pre-fab room that smelt like the open drain that was the shower. At least there was air conditioning. The UN royally messed up our flights, so I ended up having to send vehicles on the 26 hour trip to collect all the people we needed to Juba and take them back a few days later. The journey back was particularly eventful.

A bad spot on the road where trucks had got stuck had started to flood: construction of a nearby bridge having been halted because of political wrangling. The Government of South Sudan (GOSS) had contracted a Chinese company to dam the river in the dry season and construct a bridge across it. The Chinese had then sub-contracted to a North Sudanese company. The North Sudanese company had halted work on its government’s instruction because it feared the completion of the bridge and road would allow the south to transport arms (tanks from a Ukranian ship, perhaps) northwards to the border. Given that this is the only road in the country that connects the north with the south, a few things other than weapons travel that route: like me and my radios. On the way north we managed to squeeze by a bad spot after a few hours of delay, a lot of mud and the digging out of one stuck car.

Three days later we returned to the same town (called Wunrock) to find the road closed. The rising water had washed away sections of the road and flooded all the surrounding villages. Hundreds had been flooded out of their homes that now stood under 2-3ft of water. The temporary dam that has been put in place (that was also the road across a section of the river) was just about holding up under the of water that was collecting from rain miles away, but to the detriment of everything around it. We met there another group who had been waiting for 2 days – a mine clearance NGO headed up by a middle-aged, ex-military Canadian and a similar South African. Helen Fielding, the author of Bridget Jones, once wrote that development workers can fall into one of 4 categories: missionary, mercenary, misfit or broken heart. These guys were definitely number 3, and perhaps the most racist, bigoted and arrogant people I’ve ever met. Does it take one to know one?

They told us that work was ongoing and they hoped that the road would open within the next few hours. We parked and brought out our camping gear: we knew not to be optimistic.

We waited 3 days next to the rising water. Some army guys had arrived and felt it their responsibility to take over the management of the road reconstruction. They seriously delayed matters because the workers downed tools (or rather parked bulldozers) in the face of the military’s physical threats. The issue was quickly resolved (I think because the commander’s car had had been blocked by the heavy machinery), but work continued at a slow pace. We were held far away from the work by a roadblock, but snuck through occasionally (very difficult in big white cars) to see what was happening. Each time the soldiers berated us, but even that was better than the mind-numbing boredom of knowing and doing nothing.

I had a flight to Nairobi on Friday morning. It was Tuesday and there was no end to the repairs in site. The workers were building up mud on the water’s side of the road. As you looked down it, you saw now a 5ft high wall of mud on the right (and an equally high wall of water held behind it) and open space on the left. If that wall gave, everything along its 3 or 4km stretch would be washed away. As pressure built up along this lower-lying section, other sections of the road gave as the rising water undercut it. The construction team had been going back and forth between sections of the road and adding to the wall for days and getting nowhere.

This is what I find most terrifying about life here. In the UK or US we trust the structures on which we rely: the bridge has been tested, it will hold your vehicle’s weight and it will tell you clearly before you’re on it by way of a sign if it can’t. The roads are well constructed, won’t wash away and (excepting black cabs) are generally safe to travel on. If anything happens, there will be a price to pay by those responsible. This, reputation and a general respect for life ensures these standards are met. Of course there are exceptions, but those make headlines. I pondered travelling that road in our cars. The thought of getting stuck on that stretch scared me. It would have been impossible anyway with huge trenches of water cut across the path ahead.

Plan B: foot it. Early the next morning Samuel took one car back north to the safety and comfort of Leer. The Catholic priests there would put him up and could make use of the vehicle. Victor in the other car bedded in with the racist deminers (their team of Sudanese staff were actually very friendly and welcoming), and waited for the construction team to finish work. I and two others hoisted our bags onto our heads and walked through the water, waist high in some places. In others I don’t think it was just water I was wading through. It was about 10km to the next town. I regretted packing so many pairs of shoes – I’m kidding, I left them in the car. We hitched a ride back to Wau and took public transport from there, arriving back in Rumbek on Thursday.

Although only 4 weeks since my last break, I felt like I’d earned that hot shower and comfortable bed in Nairobi. A day later I was in the bright lights and big city of DC -- gripped by election fever. Poor Victor was stuck at the roadblock for another 5 days. But like all around me I forgot about all else in the world, was sucked in by CNN (who also seemed to forget about all else in the world), and watched America do the right thing.

DC was a great experience. I liked the city and had the chance to catch up with a friend. We had fun on election night. I also had a blessing in the form of an overnight visitor. I didn’t realize how much I had missed human contact. We just clicked in the way that allows an instant social and physical attraction. It was the easiest, most enjoyable and most satisfying night I’ve had in a long time. Maybe because I was desperate. Maybe because we knew we couldn’t see each other again. As has happened before, circumstance pushed me along and I started to really regret losing my US residency.

I then went to Florida for a week to visit my mother and promptly remembered why I’d left. I don’t miss Florida, but it has its advantages: cheap shopping and good medical services. The day before I left I managed to squeeze in a visit to the same dentist I’d convinced to take out my wisdom teeth during the 2 days I last had dental insurance just before I left for Ghana in 2002. I went in just for a cleaning, but given that it had been 4 years since I’d last had anything done I was expecting the worst. He suggested I have 4 small fillings and was amused by the repeated urgency as I was leaving the next morning. He kindly did them for me over his lunch break….and charged $900.

I stopped in London on the way back long enough to see a couple of friends, my uncle and family, and to apologize to my brother for the fact that my boxes will be staying with him for more than the previously agreed 6 months. It wasn’t enough time, but having been gone for as long as I’d been at work in the last 2 months, I needed to get back to Rumbek.

I’ve come back to what looks like a different country. Dry season is officially here and what was vividly green, verdant and overgrown the last time I saw it is now beige, dusty and wilting. The place seems generally calmer. It’s a bit like being at the beach. In all honesty, I’m a bit relieved to be back. I feel relieved to know the world I left in both the US and UK is still there and still just how I left it. When here I have this persistent nagging feeling like I’m missing something important. While I do miss all that goes on with friends and family, I am missing little else. Everyone is still consumed by their daily routine. Everyone is still hung up on appearances and impressions and money. I am too, but being outside it for a while is what brings me the relief. That’s one of the things I was looking for by coming. For the last 6 months I’ve not worked out, not eaten well and not flossed. My time in the US reaffirmed the importance of these things – and I’ll admit this – it’s the social reasons that have resold me on them. And also for my well-being. Maybe I’ve not come too far after all. And that might be a good thing – lest you relegate me to the category of misfit, too.

A khutba in pidgin, a wudu in heels

2008-11-20T01:32:00.000-08:00

I’ve not been keeping up with this. I think that’s a sign of contentment in that there’s not been enough to whinge about. I’ve also observed that my happiness seemed to be inversely proportional to the amount of time I spend in any one place.

This was probably the oddest Ramadan I’ve completed with some serious challenges and some easy rides. In terms of ease I had someone cooking me dinner every night. I never underestimate the value of not having to cook dinner for myself when I’m tired, cranky and incredibly impatient with innocent things like tomatoes. It was a quiet couple of weeks and we were nearing the end of the distribution. By now we were all doing this with our eyes closed and 2000 radios a day was the norm. I fulfilled my role of big man and dispatched the team to the distributions while I busied myself less easily defined program management tasks. The fact that I can’t remember what I was doing for the month shouldn’t suggest that they were unimportant…ok, maybe they were…but there was always enough of engaging stuff to do to ensure that the hours of the day to melted quickly away.

And the melting was the biggest challenge: 30+ degrees in the shade with no air conditioning meant I sweat persistently. There aren’t that may Muslims in the South and I’m the only one in my team, so like London, it was again quite a lonely experience. Especially the morning meals before sunrise. I’d bought a paraffin stove so was able to cook breakfast for myself, but it was still raining in September so I either had to cook inside (despite manufacturers claims those little Chinese stoves are not smokeless, fumeless and odourless), or outside in the rain. No electricity meant doing it by candlelight. I’m still not sure what the crunchy things in the eggs were. I stepped on a wasp. I knocked over a candle and burnt a hole in my bed. While it was nice to be able to make as much noise as I liked, the lack of conveniences such as light and running water to wash plates and myself just took a lot of time and effort. In some ways it was nice to be so far away from the developed world: my thoughts were oriented in the direction they should have been – upwards.

But the lack of good food began to take its toll. My diarrhoea was persistent and the cook’s evening meals not particularly balanced. Come the end of the month I’d lost about 8 kilos, and had sores on my tongue that had taken on a deep red colour: symptoms of vit B deficiency.

I found another mosque on the UN camp. On most occasions all visitors to the UN compound are searched, ID’d and questioned. Tell the guards you’re a Muslim going to the mosque, tough, and you’re waved straight through – an oddly backwards experience. In the mosque (a corrugated iron-roofed, mosquito net-walled shack that is leagues above and beyond the construction site that passes for a mosque in the town), I found a bizarre mix of worshippers every shade of human: black, dark brown, beige and white, from all the nations represented in UNMIS. The Imam was Nigerian and the Khutba given in pidgin:
“you have to ask for forgiveness, O! Behind the forgiveness is giving, O! Ramadan is about what? Forgiveness and Giving!.” No one really seemed to be following the very circular argmet and the small Banglaeshis to my right seemed delighted to have a new member of the community joining them.

My Somali friend Hassan, was a good source of company and evening meals throughout the month. One night he suggested a change from the Somali shack/restaurant and invited me to the house of a friend. I expected to meet the host and eat his wife’s food. The host wasn’t in his one-roomed house when we arrived, but Hassan welcomed me in and sat me next to a small, but impressive, set of wigs. Our host was a woman. She cooked for us a delicious meal from the outdoor kitchen and kept herself secluded from the strange men she was hosting. . I shouted my greetings and thanks across the rain smacked and muddy courtyard. She shouted back an invitation to use some sandals she had outside the door to go and wash for prayers. I jumped down into a small pair of women’s kittly-slipers. It felt very odd performing a wudu in heels, and the rakahs in front of a makeup stand, but I hope my prayers were nonetheless accepted.

I was looking forward to the end of Ramadan mostly because it marked the start of my next vacation. I got to Sanaa two days before Eid. Yemen was stunningly beautiful in every respect: the scenery, the architecture and the warmth of the people. I’m not sure how tourists are able to be kidnapped here: as well as being generous, respectful and friendly, most people were no taller than 5’7” and perpetually strung out on Qat. Now that is an impressive national habit. Every afternoon most men start chewing the leaf. By early evening they’re all acting like space cadets and not face passes without the huge bulge of the Qat in the cheek.

The beds, the hot running water, the beauty of the city and the warmth of the people that made it a nice break. What made it particularly good was that I was understood when I spoke. My efforts to learn Arabic in Amman some years ago appeared to be really quite fruitless as any conversation I tried to start in Arabic would only yield strange looks. Unable to speak, I’ve always felt a little fake. I tended to crumble under simple questioning by Syrian border guards as they try to understand why the individual in front of them looks like the one in the Jordanian passport they’re holding, but doesn’t seem to be ale to do more than stumble over a few words. There, I am an illiterate Arab.

In Yemen, though, I was a Briton who spoke some Arabic. Their hospitality meant that they tried to understand what I was saying, or at least they pretended to. It was an easy and relaxing week, despite very little English being spoken. That would have been a hard trip in the past. And I think that’s why I enjoyed this trip so much. As well as beautiful scenery, this was the first objective measure for me that I’m better off after my time in Sudan. My Arabic hasn’t gotten any better, I’m just a bit more confident. And it’s all relative: after the self-flagellation of a month of Ramadan in Rumbek, any break would have felt good. Why keep beating myself? Because it feels so good when I stop.

Idiots with guns 2

2008-09-11T01:44:00.000-07:00

Here’s a good idea: let’s cordon off a town at a time, freeze movements on the roads, and employ the military to do house to house searches to confiscate illegal weapons. We’ll exempt foreign aid workers and treat those whose properties we search with dignity and respect. It seemed like such a good idea at the time.

The morning after: 6 seriously injured and 2 dead.

Actually the time between conception of this, really quite good, plan and it’s implementation has been a while. It makes sense, too. The number of illegal weapons, most in the hands of young men, is shocking. But authority is easily misused and whilst searching for weapons the young, armed and sometimes drunk soldiers helped themselves to cash, store goods, vehicles women…The UN security report summed it up well: “the soldiers either were not instructed properly or chose not to follow orders,” and in traditional UN style makes no suggestions or statement for action.

You could sense the unrest in the town, but at sunset I accepted the invitation of our Somali trucker (Hassan) to have an iftar meal with him after prayers in the mosque. I was waved through the many checkpoints that had appeared –the advantage of being white. I arrived at the mosque to find the middle of town crawling with soldiers. There were a few shouts and skirmishes proportional the traffic, but nothing too hostile. I got out of the car and called Hassan – he’d been stopped and a soldier had stolen his motorbike. He didn’t sound too miffed by this and seemed more concerned that he was late to meet me. He said he was sending a boy who’d spot me. He did moments later. As we shook hands in greeting the shooting started about 10m away. I didn’t stop to look. We jumped back into the car and I took off out of town, unfortunately in the opposite direction of my compound. There was running, shouting, and screaming as it seemed that soldiers were emptying their clips. God only knew into what.

I saw a face I recognized and waved him into the passenger side. It was a guy who worked at a water bottling plant up the road a bit. “Don’t go back!” he shouted...as if our forward trajectory at 50kph suggested I was about to turn around. We continued up the road and were ushered through the metal gate by the plant’s very young-looking security guard. The guy we came with vanished, but the others in the compound – Ethiopians who I’d bought cases of water from numerous time before – were quick to welcome me and my companion. “We can accommodate you here if you wish.” The sun had set, it was time to eat, the gunfire continued.

My worry about being out of my compound quickly subsided. My homing instinct gave way to logic: stupid shit happens at night, soldiers are more drunk, darkness hides my whiteness, our compound is walled only by a bamboo fence and the watchman is about 60. Next time I’m not walking out my door without my passport.

These four Ethiopian guys gave us water to break our fast, a mat to pray on and cooked a fantastic meal of barbecued meat, tomatoes and onions, mango juice and Ethiopian coffee. We sat around sharing stories about how stupid we thought the Dinkas are. It was actually a very nice night.

Around 11pm a motorbike pulled up the front gate. As we got up to see the watchman blindly opened it. I was relived to see a grinning Hassan drive in with a soldier riding pillion. I wasn’t sure who’d hijacked who. Hassan was well known by all the Ethiopians, too. He’d navigated the roadblocks and brought cakes and a carton of milk for my breakfast and an apology for the situation. I was very touched. I was also touched by the Ethiopians making up a bed for me with a mosquito net.

The fighting quietened down quickly and by dawn the town was silent. I drove back through it at around 7 and there was no evidence of anything happening the night before. Apparently it was just twits firing into the air mostly, but some decided to fire into buildings and crowds. No one knows what started it.

I really wasn’t in that much danger, but I was scared. I called my colleagues in the compound perhaps a few too many times when the networks would allow it to make sure everyone was ok, let them know where I was, and to compensate for the fact that no one seemed to be calling me, dammit. I had a car, fuel, a flashlight, but no cash and no ID (stupid I know). On top of that: no mosquito repellent. I got bitten to shit. I’m going to turn into one of those “always ready” guys with a bum-bag and waist-hidden security belt.

No I won’t. It was a minor scare, but I’m not compromising on style. Lesson learned. It’s just another reason to relocate -- I'm pinning a lot on this move, you can see. I went property searching last week (very exciting) and saw some fun places that varied in price considerably. Like most things the initial quote varies wildly. In one conversation on a place shaded by beautiful mango trees (I was sold in an instant) the guy gave 3 prices ranging from $1000 to $3500. I think I better keep my fair skin away from the negotiating table. It's not always helpful.

Control Freak

2008-08-22T15:15:00.001-07:00

I have benefited from another’s demise. It’s a shame, but there’s not much room for regret in between the excitement and the scared shitless fear I have.

My boss was an ambitious, driven, energetic, skilled, and intrepid leader. Under his command we successfully put in place a distribution network that will get out 70,000 radios in 4 months over an area the size of France: all to his credit. But he was also the kind of guy who’d more readily ask for forgiveness than permission. Procedure, policy and paperwork were nothing more than obstacles to be circumvented. By the end of July he was unable to account for $31,500 of programme funds, all which he had issued to himself in cash advances.

He had not misappropriated it and, perhaps a little too easily, was able to produce receipts to account for it all. But given our organization’s 2 consecutive years of not so good audit findings and the fact that it’s public money, the shit hit the fan. As the finance director said, “there’s two ways to handle bad audit findings: fix the problem or blame someone.” There was a mutual agreement that he should leave to pursue other offers.

What was needed was someone who could build off the energy and networks put in place, but in a slightly more accountable manner. Someone who can do the reminder of the implementation but keep attention to detail. Call me Mr. Pragmatism. I was jetted off to meet the country director for a once over too see if I was suitable. The hour flight allowed me time to rehearse statements to hide my lack of attention to detail and tendency not to carry things through to completeness. Relative to my ex-boss, though, I’m a procedure angel. Not the label I’d have imagined for myself, if I’m honest.

He’d decided to offer me the job before I arrived, based on the good word of a friend of mine who he knew. I told you this was an incestuous world. Slightly ironic that we are partly here to combat nepotism and this is the second job I’ve got in 3 months based on knowing someone. It’s probably like this the world over, we’re just a bit more discreet about it in London.

I couldn’t say no. When else will I be handed such responsibility, based on such little experience? But the potential for disaster is significant:

I have a staff of 25. [Strike?]

I have a 90,000sqm compound, and 3 more that are being built. [Fire, delays, overrruns?]

I have 3 vehicles and one more on the way. [theft, damage, crash]

I have a budget of $1.6m of US taxpayer’s money. [shopping, anyone?]

No, really, I have no intention of misappropriating funds. I’m going to allow my brother (a US citizen) to choose the colors of the new compound we’re renovating in Wau thereby allowing a taxpayer a say in how his money is spent. I think that’s generous given that I was denied a greencard.

It’s intoxicating, exciting and a little irresponsible.

I’m determined not to fuck up just because it’s such a good opportunity and I can easily commit to the task at hand. It’s easy to do that in development, even if we’re over funded and looking for ways to dump cash. I’m also committed to making sure it goes to good use. I’m trying not to get ahead of myself and to keep my feet on the ground. My new boss, the country coordinator is involved with me at a good level to make sure that I have all the help and guidance I need.

Ultimately, it’s a very good reason to stay. Life will get easier, I think, despite the horrendous to do list I’ve inherited and its daily lengthening. Now that I have more control I can make a much better case for moving the program to a more agreeable location. And as I’ve learned again and again, life is generally better when you feel like you’re in control.

Bring on the criticism

2008-07-31T01:49:00.000-07:00

Why is it that I don’t seem to be able to keep a new Nalgene bottle for more that a few days? The first I left on the foreign exchange counter in Nairobi airport. This second one got nicked along with about 100 radios when we were rushed by a community on my most recent distribution. I was feeing very bitter about that, but later found out that that night the town was raided by cattle thieves. They lost cows and house was burned. Fate is at least fair, and a bit of plastic isn’t too much to worry about.

The vacation to London was fun, but I didn’t return energized for the work. I didn’t really expect to, though. The time away was very good and I stocked up on all the things I wanted. It took 3 days, 5 stops and $1400 to get there, but the 8 days was very much worth it, if just to speak to my mother on a clear phone line and to thank my anal-retentive brother for neatly storing all of my stuff in his attic. He even shrink-wrapped my rucksack for me. Now that’s love. In between seeing family and buying all the stuff I needed, I actually had very little free time, but did manage to catch up with some friends. It was particularly nice to be cycling again, too. On leaving I managed to get everything into the suitcase, had 0.2kgs of luggage allowance to spare, got back to Rumbek in half the time it took to go and didn’t even have to bribe anyone to get out of the airport. So, all in all, a very good trip.

I faced some harsh criticism in the UK from a friend from whom I didn’t expect it. I was hoping that my time out of Sudan would give me the chance to cast a critical eye over my experiences of the last couple of months, and a positive outcome of his criticism was that it pushed me to do it. For this I’m grateful.

The charges were:
1) I have the air of a colonial.
2) I like telling people what to do.
3) I have little understanding of the culture.
4) I lack basic respect for the people and the culture and I owe it to them and to myself to leave.

Points 1 and 2 = yes, fine, ok, true. But I take as much as I give, and I’m the first to take the piss out of myself.

Point 3, also guilty, but that’s partly because I’ve not stopped moving since I arrived in an attempt to get these bloody radios out before the rains close off every road to everywhere.

Point 4 is what hurt the most, and this is why:

I visited a friend of a friend a year or two ago in Cambodia who was working for the UN. I was most grateful for the offer of accommodation and was suitably impressed by the plush centrally-located apartment, for which the rent was apparently extortionate. I was shocked, though, when I started asking him about the city and the country to find that he knew very little. He’d been there almost 2 years. How could you not know about the place in which you lived, especially as an expatriate working for a major development organization who has an influence on every part of society? Surely you NEED an understanding of the culture if you’re going to advise and put in place systems of governance for the country?

I didn’t express these thoughts to him, but picked up the following from conversations we had. His reasoning was that he was there to do a job at which he was more than competent and he offered skills that you couldn’t find in Cambodia. Importing them was the only option.

I disagreed. I felt there was a hidden cost to the presence of an expat. His employer paid his extortionate rent in hard currency. That landlord will never accept anything else again, nor will the neighbouring landlords. A similar inflation will happen in all the goods and services the foreigner buys. It’s good for the sellers but crap for the locals who live alongside the foreigner and who see everything they buy go up in price, because the foreigner and his army of colleagues don’t mind paying a dollar for a coffee. That’s cheap on their international salary, but still would take an unreasonable chunk of, say, his Cambodian admin assistant’s salary for just one drink.

And then there’s the culture thing. Surely an understanding of the culture is vital in order to be effective at your work, no?

Apparently not. It depends on who’s evaluating the efficacy of the work.

So based on this and on my experiences as a volunteer for two years in rural Ghana, I concluded that being an expat on an international salary in a developing country was a bad thing. If you’re going to be there, you should be doing and living like the locals, not ensconcing yourself in an air conditioned expat bubble.

I think I came to this conclusion a little too easily though: partly because I’m a little presumptuous, and mostly because I still desperately wanted a career in international development but had yet to make any headway into it. Criticizing made my position more comfortable.

I thought more on the issues. I spoke them over with a number of friends. I noted the salaries and benefits of said international positions. I re-concluded: there are a lot of international development jobs out there. I’m asking moral questions that most of the people who take these jobs don’t even consider. I’ve lived the volunteer life and have been passed by a big white UN vehicle whilst I was stranded in the middle of nowhere. I know how the other half lives. If I’m not in one of those jobs, one of them will be.

I knew I was opening myself up to criticism when I came here. I knew I’d be treading a thin line. I guess I was disappointed that the friend who I thought knew me so well, apparently missed such a sizable dilemma in my life.

I must apologize if anyone else is offended by my expressed demeanor or disdain, but I feel I have good reason for it. I feel I am consistent. I was disdainful whilst in Atlanta, Birmingham, London and Amman. I am equally disdainful here. It’s not a very nice quality, I know, but if I weren’t consistent, then I think there’d be a problem.

I have a basic respect for every person I meet for the fact that they are person and they have a story. Each may have suffered in their own personal way, but relative to each other I feel some warrant more time and effort. For example, those with access to free schooling and healthcare versus those with no access to basic sanitation. I do judge, also a bad habit.

Do I have respect for Sudanese culture? No, no not much, in all honesty. I haven’t seen much, nor learnt more that a few words of Dinka, but from what I have learnt, I can conclude that there is little Sudanese culture. Evidence of Cambodian culture hits the visitor immediately. Nothing like that happens here. There are not the practices and arts that you normally see of cultures that have pride: like Ashanti Kente, Jordanian Mensef, or English music concerts.

Instead, there is a pervasive practice of opportunism that is almost brutal, particularly against foreigners. If I am ever in a car accident/incident, I will be jailed and fined. If I fire one of my employees, even for drunkenness or theft, the courts will rule in his favour and I will have to pay compensation. Theft is a way of life.

Short-term thinking also pervades: get now, don’t invest time, money or effort in things that may pay off even as soon as tomorrow, such as a returning customer. Business owners fiddle the bills and over charge because you are here today, best take advantage.

There is little understanding or appreciation of the cause-effect relationship. My Sudanese employees do not appear to understand that by not doing a job properly now (like by slipping a few radios to a couple of guys nearby), there will soon be consequences (every guy nearby will rush at us to get one). The first instinct when something such as this goes wrong is to blame someone or everyone else: in this case the community was obviously insane.

The non-Sudanese employees and business owners are immediately apparent.

And then there’s the nepotism, corruption, tribalism...

So a lot of these you find anywhere on the planet, especially the nepotism, corruption, and fiddling of bills. The other issues we might explain by having just come out of a long-running war where you didn’t know how long you were going to live and knowing who your allies were governed whether you’d make it to the end of the week. What cause or effect is there, when if I’m connected I’ll be saved, if you’re not you won’t. Little else mattered. Incidentally where there was just as much South-South conflict as North-South conflict. Does this justify such behaviour today?

No, I think. But the fact that there was a war means I can better understand why it all happens. The best I can do, perhaps, is teach those I interact with that there is a better way. Or can I? Is that not being all colonial and imposing and disrespecting of local culture?

I recognize the atrocious and very long experience this country has faced, and respect that only 2 years after the formal end of the civil war, that there is little evidence of battles having been fought. But in almost every experience I have gone into since arriving, I have gone into with an open and neutral mind. I have later berated myself, in almost every instance, for not being harder or more brutal and for being a pushover. I leave with little respect for those I have interacted with, for the apparent harm they are doing to themselves. It gets to me after not too long.

It is because of this that, after even my short time here, I say that I see little promise and have little faith or respect for local culture. It’s harsh, but so is the environment. This isn’t across the whole country, of course. Just here in the Dinka strongholds of the South. Wau, a town about 4 ours away is a comparative paradise. We’ll be moving our office there in the coming months.

Ya, so you see the outcome of my critical thought and week-long vacation. My next vacation will have to be somewhere where I’m not allowed to self-analyze as much.

Why stay at all, you might be asking? There are pleasant experiences: wild monkeys on the road. Vibrant blue, red and yellow birds everywhere. No commute to work. Knowing that I am making a direct and immediate improvement to someone’s life. Frequent offers for marriage. Sunshine. Thunderstorms and lightening that put fireworks displays to shame. Being the only white guy in the mosque and seeing people’s reaction to me there. Eggs, chapattis and sweet tea by the roadside for breakfast. They’re not many, but they’ll do for now.

I’m still applying for jobs. I barraged the WHO with applications, but no love so far. Anyone know anyone who works for them who can put a good word in for me? Well, when in Rome…

Hope all are well.

All about me

2008-07-07T00:56:00.000-07:00

Ok, now I’m bored of this. I know, it’s only been 2 months, I have the attention span of a gnat and in professional terms I’ve only been here 2 seconds. But as the novelty wears off and the annoyances mount, I’m beginning to see this whole experience for what it really is: a job.

I’m benefiting, no doubt. It is a well-paid job and the journey each day down an appalling road to a different distribution location with the now normal obstacles of mud and water sure as hell beats the daily and repetitive commute to Islington town hall. The challenges are novel and most surmountable: get to place x, budget accordingly, make repairs on the way, buy and carry fuel, arrange distributions in these locations, avoid those locations, notify now for distribution to happen then, keep team motivated throughout... A lot of it is fun and tiring in a good way.

But there’s a lot that’s not so fun. I’m doing something that I’m slightly opposed to morally. Whilst in Ghana I came across an American woman there on behalf of the Baptist church whose mission (both God and church-given) was to distribute toys to children. Thinking at that time was that actually they could do better with water, sanitation and education. Are radios any better than toys? In many ways I think no.

It’s not that I think giving people access to reliable information at any time they wish is a bad thing, it’s just that a couple of white guys showing up and doling out shit for free is completely not the type of thing I agree with. If someone wants something, should they not be willing to work for it? Whilst I do not tolerate the physical threats that are unsettlingly numerous, I no longer get upset when people in the communities we go get angry when we run out of radios. Why have we favored some to give them a radio and not another? Are we really unbiased? Am I more likely to give a radio to someone who’s attractive, has a nice smile, greets me and is Moslem? Probably, yes.

We threaten dire (though secretly unenforceable) consequences if we find someone trying to sell their radio. Each has a serial number that is recorded with their name when they collect it. I actually think we should be encouraging them to do what they want with the things – sell it for money, dissect it to learn how it works, trade it for favors – now that’s what I call empowerment. The information we gather about populations and their make up is no doubt finding its way to someone who wants it (it’s a US government project). And the most fantastic irony: we encourage people to listen to a particular program about Sudan’s development broadcast by Sudan Radio Service. The program is on each morning from 8-9am in Arabic and English. The vast majority of our female recipients, who are fully occupied during the morning hours, speak neither language. Our funding organization is staffed by women who all remind me of Bridget Jones. They seem very vague about what they want, what they are trying to achieve and how they are going to do it.

I’ve mentioned before that the culture is hostile one. A few more incidents have brought this home recently. We came across a 20-ton truck stuck in the mud on a road on our way home this past week. The Somali driver begged us, with what seemed like genuine fear, to try to pull him out even though his vehicle far out-sized my two combined. I soon understood his concern. Nearby was an army barracks and the soldiers, wanting him to give them a lift to their destination 40km away, chose to abuse him rather than work to get him (and their only transport) free. The driver and his mates had been beaten and had their cargo and diesel stolen. We managed to pull the truck free (I wish I’d had camera for that, and for the expression of joy on the driver’s face), but the celebrations were killed off when the MP who was looking on took a swing at me when I refused to carry him. Prick. This is what happens when you give idiots guns.

Whilst I could rely on my team in the face of an outright threat like this, I questioned them later. We ran out of money and I was looking to exchange some of my personal stash of USD. You get poor rates for small bills and even poorer rates for notes of older series. Many places won’t even accept notes from prior to 2001. This pisses me off because they’re all accepted by the central bank. Each exchanger claims to need to protect his interests (from what I’m unsure). As I went to reluctantly change a bill from 1998 for 20% less than one from 2004, one of my team stopped me and offered to change it for me at the same rate: he wanted dollars and knew he could get a better rate when we reached back to Rumbek. My first thought was “git, if you’ve got cash, loan it to us so we can get home,” but by that point I was tired and hungry so gave him the $. I guess he wanted to protect his interests too.

My boss and I have butted heads few times. It took one particular argument to remind me, very vividly, why it was that I decided to leave the US: the pervasive sense of selfishness. Having been sent on two consecutive days to locations that failed to be notified that we were coming for the distribution (his responsibility) I had to face an inquisition on my return over why I had not distributed all the radios I carried out. In one location I had to drag guys off the car. An email that he sent back to the our head of programmes addressing our funders concerns of our going too fast and cutting too many corners read something like “I’ve always addressed each of these points personally in my distributions. I don’t know what Shareef has been doing, but I’ll make sure he does it as I do from now on.” This is utter bollocks. The corners I’ve learned to cut, I’ve done so from watching him. I guess as program manager, he has interests to protect, too.

It is instances like these, particularly the latter two where a threat comes from within, that really drives the message home: you are on your own.

So, what’s the remedy?

1) Start acting the same way and 2) go on vacation.

Things aren’t so bad that I’m having to look for other jobs – but I am looking, nonetheless. I think it’s best I keep my eyes open and feel no sense of obligation to this project or my colleagues. I do hold the title of consultant, after all. I’m aware of many overpaid and underworked UN positions so might look to give one a try. Maybe I’ll also stay content if I remain solidly mercenary. I will stay as along as I’m learning and am being well paid for it.

Regarding the vacation: it’s been 2 months, which means I get a week of break and a grand to leave the country to anywhere I want. Talk about cushy, huh? I want to go somewhere with where I can act to my own schedule, eat fruit and vegetables and a variety of foods and fish, drink fruit juice, enjoy a fast internet connection, use a kitchen and a clean flushing toilet, buy music and movies, and have a good possibility of getting nookie. And because I’m starting to think all about and around me, I’m not going to tell you where it is.

xx

I do hope this is skimmed milk

2008-06-22T23:21:00.000-07:00

Another couple of weeks, another bunch of remote places, another few thousand radios. Ok, I’m getting used to this now. There were trees, more mud huts, more mud and lots and lots of black people. Does this crate the necessary imagery in lieu of my lack of camera? There are actually more pictures on flikr, none taken by me, but all from my most recent journey out in to the bush.

This trip (two combined in one) was actually different in a lot of ways. Most notably because I was running the show for 2 weeks - my boss was on leave. This, in and of itself was thrilling, and from this fortnight I understand why managers get paid just that little bit more. Christ, it was like babysitting. Bickering aside, there were some very good days and I think this is because I’ve heeded the advice of a good friend in a similarly uncivilized location (Dudley, UK) and am much less fighting the situations in which I find myself, and more just letting them unfold. In most cases the situation does not go exactly as I planned, but the outcome is as I wanted and those who felt that they should have been in control, felt so. A win – win situation all round. What’s been good:

I’ve discovered that I speak the language of civil servants. I knew my time in local government would pay off. I’ve found myself addressing groups of County and Payam (level below a county) Administrators – in a very Humphrey Appelby manner - and getting exactly the response I was hoping for. I quite enjoyed this, as you can imagine.

I stayed for a few days at a UN compound upcountry in a town called Rubkona. I now have first hand proof that the UN does almost nothing apart from swanning around in white vehicles that non UN staff are not allowed to look at let alone ride in. But I got to stay in one of their plush converted shipping container-turned rooms (cut 2 holes for windows, one for door and one for AC). The AC felt particularly decadent, but it was my birthday – also celebrated by an orange, apple, grapefruit, and mango. I was having fantasies about fresh fruit, and almost immediately as if by divine intervention, I saw a man selling fruit on the side of the road (the first I’ve seen in Sudan). I made him very wealthy. I’ve been blessed by such moments at just the right intervals over the last couple of weeks to keep me generally quite happy. Another was finding a woman who makes strong Arabic-style coffee, but with ginger and tea with cinnamon, and sitting in the back of the tent the was serving from, letting the smoke from the sandalwood burned to chase flies away also hide me, and shade the bright afternoon light that streamed in.

In one community, Mankien, I experienced something else new. I think this was in part because until now we’ve been working at a frenetic pace. It was a good sign when we arrived and a woman approached the car simply to greet the newcomers. In every place I have been up until now, people have approached to ask for something. Here was the first where it felt like we were firmly on the receiving end. And it got better.

Peter, Mankien’s head catechist, had been plying me with food and drink since my arrival late in the night a few days before. He found me within 20 minutes of my arrival in the town. I'd not been allowed to buy even a bottle of water for myself, and it was only narrowly that I convinced him that he didn't need to house or wash the clothes of me and my 6-member team (plus 2 drivers). I conceded to have dinner each night and breakfast with him each morning and by 7:45 on the morning of the planned distribution I was washed, dressed and drinking my second glass of strong, sweet and milky tea. It had taken me two days to piece together two facts here: 1 – the milkiness was really full flavored and there was a skin on top of the tea, like you get with fresh milk, 2- there were three cows in the corner of the compound. As I begun to pray that mixing with hot tea would equate to pasturization, my thought process was interrupted by a visitor who wished to speak specifically to me.

I couldn’t guess her age, but she moved slowly. The softness in her eyes was framed by a story of something much harder, as the deep wrinkles mingled with her tribal markings. She introduced herself via Peter, and wanted to thank us for bringing her and her community the opportunity of knowledge by giving them these radios. She was praying for God to bless us.

I stammered a comparably feeble response along the lines of "I'm just deliverin em, luv,” (I blame it on the milk) but Peter translated this into what he seemed to think I should have said and the woman was happy.

And she was just one of many to express her gratitude. Because the surrounding communities were inaccessible by vehicle, the members of those communities who received blue pre-distribution cards had come Mankien. Most had arrived the previous day. Their, up to 4 hour, walk across the swamps had not abated their excitement and processions of drumming and singing weaved their way around Mankien until late in the night. They started again early the following morning. In another community I cocked up the numbers and arrived with too few radios. The local administrator was very worried about trying to explain this to the community, for fear that they would accuse him of keeping them for himself, so he asked me to address the crowd. I did so (more Evita than Humphrey Appelby here), apologizing and asking for their forgiveness. A bold girl at the back shouted in response “it’s ok, what you’ve brought is enough for us”. Mwaaaaa.

That was all sharply contrasted to the place I’ve just come from, where the villages were crawling with soldiers and a lot the men wear women’s dresses – not because cross-dressing is popular, rather because the men have intercepted aid goods intended for women. They fought over everything and fought us at every step of the way. The County administrator’s first question to me was “where is the radio for me?”

When we arrived in the town, we greeted a man and asked for direction to the catholic mission. “You’re not from here,” he replied and studied us for a good moment before reluctantly pointing the way.

I think it’s a result of ethnic homogeneity. Down here in the South it’s almost 100% Dinka, whereas up North it’s a mix of indigenous Nuer, Dinka from the South, Arabs from North Sudan and black Muslims from Darfur. In Mankien they resented the colossal green mosque in the middle of their primarily Christian town (a handdown from the war when the town was occupied by the Northern army), but the ethnic Arab traders who stayed on have become a part of the community. As they all brush up against each other there is friction, but they all seem to recognize the difference. And that probably makes each reflect on himself.

Not down here in Dinkaland, where there is a dangerous combination of pride and ignorance. They are closed off from the rest of the country and the rest of the world. As far as they are concerned, outside has nothing to offer. Our distribution had to stop as a minor riot broke out and ran over someone’s house. All aid organizations have pulled out of this area, stating complications when trying to work with the community.

Ah well, some people got radios. I hope they use them, appreciate them and learn of the world beyond their towns. If I could, I’d have taken the batch back up to Mankien. But maybe these demonstrably ignorant and aggressive people one are the ones in greater need. It’s just good to feel appreciated, I guess. It’s interesting, though, that given that the war ended just 2 years ago, the ex-occupied towns are the most hospitable and developed. This says something about preparedness for independence.

Don’t worry, my arrogance isn’t carrying me away. A couple of things that brought me back to earth: I got sick again (not Brucellosis). I think a touch of Cholera this time – it was not pretty, but I’ve made a full recovery, thank God. Also a near car crash where a goat ran in front of me at 80kph on a dirt road. I really can’t remember what I did with the pedals and the wheel, but I’m quite certain that it wasn’t governed by much logic. The result was a skid down into the ditch on the right side of the road, then up, over and down to the left side of the road, then back to the middle in a large (albeit graceful) arc the left us pointing in the opposite direction. I thanked God for saving us and restoring my humility.

Off again today.

xx

Rough riding

2008-05-31T04:26:00.000-07:00

Should I try this, or should I try to the left? I have little time to decide: I’m moving at about 50kph and I need to keep my momentum up because if I slow I’ll start sinking. Stopping is not an option. Straight ahead looks like about 20 meters of lake, with only the highest points of the grooves carved into the soft mud showing, made by the 20 tonne truck that passed on this ‘road’ when it was last ‘passable’. After those 20 meters the tracks curve to the right out of sight and God knows what lies beyond. I am tense and anxious and the pace and frequency with which such obstacles keep appearing in front of me is relentless.

So should I try it, or try to the left? I have no idea how deep that water is and my steering wheel will be of little use. The car will plunge a couple of feet as I enter the water. I’ll probably be bucked and bounced as the tires alternate between finding something to grip and sinking sharply into the soft mud under the surface. If I’m wearing my seatbelt, the force with which I’m thrown forward when I hit the water and upward with every bump will cause the belt to tighten again and again, stopping me from reaching the steering wheel quickly enough to at least try to avoid any solid object I might be careening towards. If I’m not wearing my seatbelt I’ll be bucked out of my seat and hit my head on the ceiling of the cabin so hard, I’ll see stars. Dashboard warning lights will flash (oil, battery, air intake) and belts will start to slip and squeal as the car tries to suggest that I really shouldn’t be doing this to it.

So should I try it or try to the left? I’m not even convinced this is the road. I’ve driven this 2 hour stretch in both directions for the last 3 days, but each time it’s a different combination of time of day and proximity to the last rain to make it look like a completely different path. And they are all just paths through the bush. There are few clues as to exactly where I am. I passed couple of mud huts a few kilometers ago and also a cattle camp, but there is little else to remark.

So should I try it or go to the left? Left looks like marshland the other side of that tree and I’ve no idea if it’s passable or if it will bring me back to the direction I’m wanting to go. I can’t go to the right: there’s a dense cluster of young tress that are not old enough to have grown a sufficient root system to support me and not small enough for me knock over with the front bumper. And I really want to try to avoid killing more trees: I’ve scraped past so many as I’ve tried to edge my way around crater-like holes, under a few as I foraged for a semi-dry path around a lake like the one I’m currently facing, and knocked a couple flat as the arse end of the vehicle has slid sideways and the steering mechanism served only to change the direction in which the mud is flying.
So should I try it, or try to the left? If I get stuck I’ll be humiliated, and will have to wait for another vehicle to pull me out. It’ll be a good few hours before another passes, if at all. I need to get to the day’s distribution point and start moving these radios so that I can start back in good time. I don’t want to be out here at night again. I’ve gotten considerably better at driving in these conditions so I’m not as terrified as I was a week ago. It was a hellish journey to get here: 11 hours and at night following a heavy rain when the world shrunk to only what was illuminated by my one working headlight and none of those 10m were in any way inviting. I got stuck twice (lack of skill) and my colleague got stuck once (lack of traction). I felt real fear at the prospect of being stranded out here with no help and only the local wildlife of snakes, scorpions, mosquitoes and lions for company. We arrived at the catholic mission around 11:30pm, exhausted and very, very muddy. Neither my camera nor my mobile phone survived the journey.

So this has been my last two weeks: a lot of driving. I would wake up early each day, tighten the front shock absorber that keeps smashing it’s busing to smithereens, siphon some diesel from the Father’s store, top up the windscreen washer fluid, fill the back of the car with radio boxes and head out as early as I could to distribute as many radios as possible and get back by sunset. I‘m impressed at the extent to which my morning routine has changed and proud to have added new skills to my CV (and some new vocab).

We’ve been staying with Father Sergio – a priest with the Camboni mission. Similar to the priests we stayed with in Leer, he’s been here a few years, but it young – about 35-40. These men are amazing – they have learnt the local language, the customs, are mechanics, medics, chefs, butchers, bakers, engineers, carpenters, masons and barbers all in one. The catholic diocese keeps them well stocked with tinned vegetables and other such necessities, but generally they stay put and get on with work. Sergio’s hospitality and expertise in vehicle maintenance is a welcome gift in an environment that is in every other way hostile. He also shared with me a tin of fruit salad last night. What luxury.

But back to the task at hand: should I try this? Despite my anxiety, I am also optimistic and have faith in Toyota. I’ve been praying regularly. I get the revs up to about 3000, shift into second, grip the steering wheel tightly and pop the clutch…

Nyaal Distribution - snakes, mud and priests

2008-05-29T07:11:00.000-07:00

2008-05-10 Saturday
Some debate in the morning and the day before as to if I was actually flying, where to and when. Becky (an English girl from the NGO Internews) came to collect me in the morning and we flew together to Thurjal, an airstrip in the middle of nowhere. Gabe, my boss, showed up with Yoko and we all travelled to nearby Leer – greeting amongst the Nuer is “Maaaleh”
Later I met fathers Guillermo and Francis of the Camboni mission, upon whom we’re relying quite heavily to carry out our program. They’ve both been in Sudan for decades and liked poking fun at me because of their work in Glasgow and the difficulties of the tribes of the UK.
Met a bunch of catechists who are registering the names of the radio recipients. Only one member of the group spoke English. The radio show we want them to listen to is in English and Arabic. Yet another example of a supply led development project. Also met charismatic members of the women’s group. Madam Ruth was particularly lovely.
Leer is a bit desolate. It’s basically an airstrip with settlement either side. The whole place has an ashen pallor if that’s possible. We stayed at a compound run by Save the Children. It was empty, so they had empty rooms and 2 landrovers just sitting there. Seems that all NGOs operate this way. In the mess hall there was filtered water, cooked food, satellite TV and internet. Should I tell my mother this about her favourite charity?

2008-05-11 Sunday
Came to Nyal in the morning – took about 2.5 hours on roads that looked like they have only recently dried out. We followed the new road, bearing left randomly. If it rains again while we are here we will be stranded. There is an airstrip here and a flight is scheduled to arrive on Thursday to collect Yoko.
Met the charismatic head catechist Michael, studying to be a priest and his English is excellent. Also met the Payam and the Panyijar County administrators (James). People tend to identify with their Boma more than village or county.

2008-05-13 Monday
Did a radio distribution in Panjar. 200 radios took about 4 or 5 hours. The crowds were plentiful and the flies there in force. The volume of people crowing around us kept me in the shade when the sun moved around the tree and the volume of people kept me distracted from the amount of flies climbing on my face at any given time. The others left Maker and I do handle Panjar and continued onto Ganyel. We got a text about an hour later telling us they were stuck in mud. Maker went in our vehicle with Samuel to go and retrieve them. As my crowd and the light dwindled with no sign of the vehicles I began to worry. They came back at the light was just fading. We returned to Nyaal, and despite my exhaustion, I didn’t sleep well.

2008-05-14 Tuesday
Another distribution, this time in more-remote Pondock. I had a catechist working with me who complained incessantly. Father Memo came in the morning and we all went from Nyaal to Ganyal. We picked up the spindly Payam Administrator who looked and fulfilled his role of being utterly useless. I set up in the Pondock church that was quickly overrun with young men wanting radios. All had cards, though, and all showed utter disrespect for their women who they pushed and shoved out of the way to get to the table. We had to stop 4 times to try and get people out of the compound. They refused to move. The catechists working in the church were useless at controlling the crowd who would advance inch by inch until they were literally on top of me. I moved 4 times: first I was in a tukul but with the door permanently occluded by someone fighting to get out and 6 people fighting to get in, I could neither see from the lack of light, nor work due to the constant shower of grit from the roof because people were shoving against it. Then to the courtyard, but my attempt at taking one man and one woman failed as the men refused to stay in a line, or give the women room to come forward. Then to the large hall, with 2 doors. We arranged it one for men one for women, and I started with a fair number of women, but again they quickly vanished to be replaced by men who crowded and complained. The people were so close around us I could hardly breath and I couldn’t think of a better circumstance to contract TB. Gabe and others arrived at around 4:30 and tried to continue distributing form the car. He managed another 16 that way. He found more women and on trying to bring them in, they fought amongst themselves. There were torn dresses, guys forced their way through the wooden fence and we took the opportunity to pack up quickly and escape – 40 radios short of our target.
I was relieved to be heading out with a good amount of light (the journey back to Nyaal would take about 2.5 hours). The rain came only lightly in the morning. On the ride out we all looked skyward intermittently in hopes that it wouldn’t continue. Thankfully, our prayers were answered each day – with only a light sprinkling in the morning. So the weather was in our favour, the light good, the roads dry after the hot day and then Samuel ran over a goat on our way out of the town in which we had made few friends. This was going to be expensive. The goat’s front leg was clearly broken. The owner was retrieved. Thankfully we had a few Nuer catechists with us to negotiate on our behalf. The price was settled at 100SDG (USD50), which all believed to be fair. We loaded the goat into the back of our car, having paid compensation and as we were setting off, the owner said “you will return the goat tomorrow, yes?”. Brakes were applied sharply. Men exited. The South Sudan Reconstruction and Rehabilitation Commissoin (SSRC) administrator was called. Chairs were brought. We were going to be a while. After about a further 45 minutes of negotiation, we realised that there are 2 fines – one for hitting the goat, one for replacing it. We paid 100. A new guy (the real owner) demanded 400 more. The SSRC man negotiated 50SDG more from us and offered 100 from his office (it will probably never come). We thanked him kindly and got moving quickly, picking up a few passangers when we stopped. They snuck in with the goat. I figured they could keep it company.
We arrived in Ganyal to find Yoko and Father Memo in a similar state, without the goat, of course. They were tired, overrun and had made few friends in the day. One guy started verbally abusing father Memo when he refused him a lift back to Nlyaal. He told him to go to hell. Father Memo replied “after you”.
It was dark when we set off. The very bumpy journey back to Naal took the better part of 3 hours.
This was the first night I slept all the way through. I was surprised, particularly because I found out what it was that was rustling in my roof – a very big snake.

2008-05-14 Weds
Final distribution in Nyaal, here in the county commissioner’s compound. We had learnt from our experiences yesterday, and took advantage o the metal fence and gate, so held the crowd outside and only let in women with cards. The first hour was manageable. But then the children started scrambling to the front and fighting their way in. Then the young men came and started trying to push their way in. Gabe held them off playing the role of chief bouncer. I did issue resolution and gave confiscated cards to women who showed up with none. The others coordinated the registration and handed out radios. We were impossibly busy. After what seemed like 4 hours I checked my watch to find that it was only 10am.
A soldier showed up – drunk out of his mind, and probably cranking on amphetamines. On sight of him the children ran. He seemed in a sufficiently inebriated stated as to use them as target practice. The trouble was he wanted payment for his services. We negotiated him down to one radio from his demand of on case. His effect didn’t last and both the kids and the young men started to get aggressive. Three began to get very ugly. One kid, very small, started trying to grab the radios from the women as they tried to exit. Then two guys, both very tall, started picking a fight. Gabe got into a shoving match with one, and the other started shoving me. We called the distribution to a close – it was at 11am, we were 240 radios short of our 2000 target. But given that our target group seem to either be giving their radios away or having them taken off them, I wonder if it makes any difference.
It’s nice to have the afternoon free. I’m resting and I feel like I’ve earned it.
We needed to distribute the remaining radios so Michael assembled the remaining catechists and we let them organize themselves to distribute. We left the compound and sat in Father’s place next door and soon heard shouting. There were lots of women, but I sense that many had collected yesterday. It was relieving not to have to sort it out. Michael worked very hard and Gabe has hired him to oversee the listening groups in the area.
Robert met with NDI in Juba – they want to extend our funding for another 6 months, and give us another few million to vamp up the civic education component of the program. I’m trying to think of a creative way to do this – like call ins, questions posed to the show and then responded to – but there are so many hindrances. No phones and no post here. The radio show can’t do a regional focus and doesn’t really do newsy type stuff, it’s just discussion and if they did focus on an area, there’d be squabbling. I’ll keep thinking.
We ate the goat – the silly cook managed not to completely mess it up, but he did still hack it to pieces and boil it. The father and sister came to eat with us. We lamented over the situation here. Despite incredibly fertile ground, very few of them are farming. Partly because they didn’t learn while they were displaced, and partly because WFP is still distributing food in a place that has plentiful papaya, mango and eucalyptus trees. There is no need to be giving handouts here. The UN apparently tried to do a livelihoods program a few years ago, but the big man chopped all the tools and claimed that the oxen provided couldn’t be used to farm because their culture prevented them from beating cattle. This is crap. Father suggested putting a dress on it and calling it a woman, the men would have no problems beating it then.
I and my snake were restless tonight.

2008-05-15 Thursday
It rained. It rained heavy and hard in the morning for about 2 hours, and then a good drizzle that didn’t seem to want to stop and saturated everything – including the airstrip. Yoko’s plane couldn’t land, but we had to wait until 4pm to find that out – now time and the conditions of the road were seriously against us. It was a very rough and long journey back to Leer. The first half was nothing short of a rollercoaster and Gabe, who was driving, tried not to get stuck and not to veer off the road – I wasn’t entirely convinced that he was in full control of the vehicle, but thought it best not to worry about this. We had father Memo and Sister Agatha with us. Surely that would help.
We cleared the roughness to get to the new road built by the prospecting Chinese oil company. The County Commissioner had had the sense to demand that if they were going to be coming into his county they would have to build the road, but he didn’t specify the quality. So they build the road by digging either side of the path and compacting it. Either side of the path was marsh. Thus they made a road out of marsh mud that is long, wide and utterly useless when it gets the slightest bit wet. We had no traction and the muck would accumulate so thick on the tires and wheel wells that it would prevent the wheels from turning. We had to stop every few kilometres to dig out the clay. We, stupidly, had carried no shovels so had to do it using sticks, a pipe we were carrying and our hands. This lengthened the journey considerably and in the 6 hours it took to pass this stretch of road we saw no other sign of life. We all doubted that we would make it to Leer that day.
We did reach Leer and a dry road late in the night – around 11pm. The sisters of the catholic mission had waited up for their colleague to arrive and laid out a very generous spread for us on arrival: fired eggs, bread and tomato salad – made with olive oil and balsamic vinegar! Sheer luxury. It was like having 7 grandmothers fussing over me. I slept very well that night.

2008-05-16 Friday
We got a late start because the clay had not dried and fallen off as we’d hoped to had to dig out more. This was much easier now that we had a spade. We bid farewell to the father and sister and headed off to Bentiu. Yoko still needed to make her connecting flight to Khartoum on Saturday and we were unsure what was the best thing to do – see if we could get her on a flight in Wau (unlikely, they need 72 hours notice for a reservation), or try and make Rumbek for tomorrow morning by 10am. The latter seemed impossible, but it looked like the only option. We covered about 900km that day. The roads were considerable better for much of it, but there were some good stretched that were nothing short of appalling due to wear. The efficacy of the county commissioner is demonstrated by the state of his roads. We reached Wau at around 9 and prepared to leave at 5 for the 4-5 hour journey to Rumbek. My stomach seemed to have had enough of the whole experience and started running really bad. I think I woke up half the compound with the noise I made on my visit to the latrine in the middle of the night.

2008-05-17 Saturday
Rough journey to Rumbek. We made by 10am, just, losing 3 shocks and our brakes on the way. We arrived to find that Yoko’s flight was at 2pm. Arse. Came back to the compound and slept. Home sweet home. I get to rest tomorrow as well, then off on Monday to Marialo that doesn’t appear on many maps and if it does it has no roads leading to it. I have no idea what to expect.

Prime Location

2008-05-29T00:23:00.000-07:00

This was an email I sent on 19 May 2008

It feels like I've been here a month. The past week has brought me to
some equally beautiful and ugly places. In each I would remark to
myself "now THIS is in the middle of nowhere" only to go another 100km
further into the nowhereness.

The project I'm working on aims to help build South Sudan's civil
society. There is nothing here: only a nascent media, no national
newspapers, no national radio or television, few roads (let alone
paved ones), no phones, no post... The project has helped set up a
daily radio program that addresses matters of the country: peace,
democracy, human rights and the upcoming referendum on independence.
The more capable South Sudan looks come 2011, the greater the chance
that independence from the north will come. My project is helping
achieve this by distributing 70,000 radios to the most remote corners
to allow people to hear about and play their role in the development
of their country.

So in the past week I've traveled about 2000km, helped distribute
about 3000 radios, held back an angry crowd for whom we didn't have
any, slept under a snake, prayed for and then cursed the rain, dug our
car out of the soft clay into which it sank (5 times) and felt utterly
isolated while doing with no other sign of human life for 6 hours. But
I had good company and a sense of purpose throughout, so it was all
fine.

Whilst I am unsure if I'll ever get the muck out from under my
fingernails, I am sure that the last week has fulfilled me to an
extent that 2 years working in London did not (no offense Islington
colleagues). I know, I'm still in the honeymoon phase, but this just
feels right. And after a week out there, my little mud hut in Rumbek
feels very luxurious, and in a prime location, indeed.

I am aware that my delight might rapidly fade along with the novelty
of being here. It's not all roses and not a friendly place. In fact,
it feels outright hostile. The country itself is fucked. After 25
years of fighting, the next generation of able-bodied men seem unable
or unwilling to do anything. The land is fertile and uncultivated
mango and papaya trees dot the landscape, but no one farms. They queue
up at WFP distributions. There is immense demand for services and
goods, especially from the over funded NGO army, but this demand is
not met by Sudanese entrepreneurs. There are none of those, it seems.
The mechanics are Kenyans, the truckers and shippers Somalis, the
restaurateurs and bakers Ugandans. They charge extortionate prices,
pay no taxes and will inevitably leave taking their fortunes with
them.

The expat community is small, incestuous and comprised mostly of
desperate women and lecherous men. I've met a couple of very pleasant
people, though, and I get on well with my project manager who's
basically a lad with a big adventure budget.

And it's just gotten bigger: our funders have agreed not only to
extend, but also to triple our funding. I'd like to take part credit
for this, but given that I've only been here a week, I really don't
think I can. Good news is that this could turn into something more
permanent for me. Let's hope it all continues to go as well and I'll
assess after a few more weeks of work. I'm off again today to do
another distribution in a place not as far away, but with just as
difficult a crowd, I hear. Add to the list of training requirements -
bouncer classes.